
mjj ■* 

Y» «* 1 

J^PI 1 * ^4< 

r a. — * ^ 

g*_ fc-.i ^Vv«« 

rTxJt* . ^/' . . 





PiSWr»{ /“ -U«T 

L ' • '-— ^K. - ' '* 

^ i m it!*' 

^T»i’ : i : 



UV# 'A' 

L% ^ -4 • 

"SaJ] 













COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















The City and the World 

and Other Stories 


BY 


FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY 

Vi 

Author of 

“The Last Battle of the Gods,” Etc., Etc. 


EXTENSION MAGAZINE 
McCormick Building 
CHICAGO 

1913 



Copyright, 1913, by 
Francis Clement Kelley 




©CI.A35428 3 

Iff -Of 


PREFACE 


T HESE stories were not written at one time, nor were 
they intended for publication in book form. For the 
most part they were contributions to Extension Maga- 
zine, of which the author is Editor, and which is, above all, 
a missionary publication. Most of them, therefore, were 
intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories. In fact, 
there was not even a remote idea in the author ’s mind when 
he wrote them that some day they might be introduced to 
other readers than those reached by the magazine itself. In 
fact, he might almost say that the real object of most of the 
stories was to present a Catholic missionary appeal in a new 
way. Apparently the stories succeeded in doing that, and 
a few of them were made up separately in booklets and used 
for the propaganda work of The Catholic Church Extension 
Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so the 
writer consented to allow the stories to appear in book form ; 
hoping that, thus gathered together, his little appeals for 
what he considers the greatest cause in the world may win 
a few new friends to the ideas which gave them life and 
name. 

FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY. 


Chicago, Illinois, July 30, 1913. 












:• 1 




* 


v 
















/ 

% 











Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a cold fear 


CONTENTS 


TITLES PAGE 

The City and the World 1 

The Flaming Cross i 20 

The Vicar-General 44 

The Resurrection of Alta 53 

The Man with a Dead Soul 67 

The Autobiography of a Dollar. 74 

Le Braillard de la Magdeleine 82 

The Legend of Deschamps 84 

The Thousand Dollar Note 89 

The Occasion 109 

The Yankee Tramp 119 

How Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint 127 

The Unbroken Seal 136 

Mac of the Island 144 



THE CITY AND THE 
WORLD 

V 

F ATHER DENFILI, old and blind, telling his 
beads in the corner of the cloister garden, 
sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought 
him from his confessional in the great church to the 
bench where day after day he kept his sightless vigil 
over the pond of the goldfish, turned back at the 
sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili’s 
face, thought he must have fancied the sigh. For 
sadness came alien to the little garden of the Com- 
munity of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous 
gem of a little garden under its square of Roman 
sky. The dripping of the tiny fountain, tinkling like 
a bit of familiar music, and the swelling tones of the 
organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered be- 
neath the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged 
their murmurings into the peacefulness of San Am- 
brogio, that Father Tomasso, just from the novi- 
tiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have 
dreamed Father Denfili’s sigh. For what could 
trouble the old man here in San Ambrogio on this, 
the greatest day of the Community? 

0 ) 


2 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


For to-day Father Ramoni had returned to 
Rome. Even as Father Tomasso passed the foun- 
tain a group of Fathers and novices were gathering 
around one of the younger priests, who still wore 
his fereoula and wide-brimmed hat, just as he had 
entered from Via Paoli. The newcomer’s eyes trav- 
eled joyously over his breathless audience, calling 
Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news. 

“Yes, it is true,” he was saying. “I have just 
come from the audience. Father General and 
Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariate 
of State, but I came straight home to tell you. His 
Holiness was most kind, and Father Ramoni was 
not a mite abashed, even in the presence of the Pope. 
When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up 
and gave him a seat. “Tell me all about your won- 
derful people and your wonderful work,’ he said. 
And Father Ramoni told him of the thousands he 
had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing 
of God, to do so much. The Holy Father asked him 
every manner of question. He was full of enthu- 
siasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has 
done. He is the greatest man in Rome to-day, is 
Ramoni. He will be honored by the Holy See. The 
Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day for 
our Community.” The little priest paused for 
breath, then hastened on. “Rome knows that our 
Father Ramoni has come back,” he cried, “and 
Rome has not forgotten ten years ago.” 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


3 


“Was it ten years that Father Rarnoni passed in 
South America ?” a tall novice asked Father To- 
masso. 

“Ten years,’ * said Father Tomasso. “He was 
the great preacher of Rome when the old General” 
— he nodded toward the cloister corner where 
Father Denfili prayed — “sent him away from 
Rome. No one knew why. His fame was at its 
height. Men and women of all the city crowded the 
church to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four 
years old. But Father Denfili sent him away to 
Marqua, commanding the Superior of our Order out 
there to send him to those far-off mountain people 
of whom the papers were telling at that time. I did 
not know Father Romani well. I was a novice at the 
time. But I knew that he did not want to go from 
Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. 
Now, see what has happened. He has converted 
over one-third of that people, and the rest are only 
waiting for missionaries.” 

“And the work is all Father Rarnoni ’s?” the 
novice asked. 

“All.” Father Tomasso drew him a little far- 
ther from the group that still listened to the little 
priest who had come from the Vatican. “Father 
Ramoni found that the people had many Christian 
traditions and were almost white ; but it was he who 
instilled the Faith in their hearts. There must be 
thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now , 9 9 he continued 


4 


TEE CITY AND TEE WORLD 


proudly, “and sooner or later, all novices will have 
to go out there. Father Ramoni has made a splen- 
did Prefect-Apostolic. No wonder they have sum- 
moned him to Rome for consultation. I have heard” 
— he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoul- 
der to where Father Denfili sat on the bench by the 
pond — ‘ ‘ that it is certain that Marqua is to be made 
a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops. 
There is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they 
are training some of the natives to be catechists. I 
tell you, Brother Luigi, missionary history has never 
chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni has 
wrought. ’ ’ 

From behind them came the rising voice of the 
little priest, bubbling into laughter. “And as I came 
through the Pincio all that I heard was his name. I 
had to wait for a duchessa’s carriage to pass. She 
was telling an American woman of the times when 
Father Ramoni had preached at San Carlo. ‘His 
words would convert a Hindu, ’ she was saying. And 
the Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to 
tell me that he had heard that Father Ramoni will 
be one of the Cardinals of the next Consistory. Is it 
not wonderful?” 

The murmur of their responses went across the 
garden to old Father Denfili. Father Tomasso, 
crossing the path with the novice, suddenly saw a 
strange look of pain on the old priest’s face, and 
started toward him just as the gate to the cloister 


THE CITY AND THE WORLD 


5 


garden swung back, revealing a picture that held 
him waiting. Four men — a great Roman prelate, 
the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and 
Father Pietro, Ramoni ’s secretary — were coming 
into the garden. Of the four Father Ramoni stood 
out in the center of the group as vividly as if a 
searchlight were playing on his magnificent big- 
ness. His deep black eyes, set in a face whose 
strength had been emphasized by its exposure to 
sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mopd. His 
mouth, large, expressive, the plastic mouth of the 
orator, was curving into a smile as he gave heed to 
the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shook 
his head as the great man, oblivious of their coming 
before a crowd of intent watchers, continued the 
words he had been saying on Via Paoli. 

“And the Holy See is about to make your Mar- 
qua into a Province. Is it not wonderful, Father 
Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift to the 
people you converted! And yet to me it is more 
wonderful that you wish to go back. Why do you 
not stay here! You, a Roman, would advance.’ ’ 

“Not now, Monsignore,” the missionary an- 
swered quickly. They were passing the group near 
the fountain, going toward the bench where Father 
Denfili sat. Ramoni ’s secretary, a thin, serious- 
visaged priest of about the same age as his Superior, 
with bald head and timid, shrinking eyes, took with 
the greatest deference the cloak and hat Father 


Q TEE CITY AND TEE WOELD 

Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old 
General. The prelate answered Ramoni. 4 4 But you 
are right, of course/ ’ he admitted. 4 4 It is best that 
you return. The Church needs you there now. But 
later on — chi lo sa? You are to preach Sunday 
afternoon at San Carlo? I shall be there to hear 
you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah, you do well 
here! ‘Filius urbis et orbis — son of the city and 
the world.’ It’s a great title, Ramoni!” 

They had come in front of the bench where 
Father Denfili told his beads. The prelate turned 
to the old General of San Ambrogio with deference. 
4 4 Is it not so, Father?” he asked. But Father Den- 
fili raised his sightless eyes as if he sought to focus 
them upon the group before him. Father Ramoni, 
laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joy con- 
gealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He 
turned away angrily, then recovered himself in time. 
Father Denfili was no longer on the bench beside the 
pond. He was groping his way back to the chapel. 

It was a month before the Consistory met to 
nominate the new hierarchy for Marqua. It had 
been expected that the first meeting would end in 
decisive action and that, immediately afterward, the 
great missionary of the Community of San Am- 
brogio would return with increased authority and 
dignity to his charge. But something — one of 
those mysterious 4 4 somethings” peculiar to Rome — 
had happened, and the nominations were postponed. 


TEE CITY AND TEE WOULD 


7 


In the month that Father Ramoni remained in 
Rome he had tasted the fruits of his old popular suc- 
cess. On his first Sunday at home he preached in 
San Carlo as well as ever — better than ever. And 
the awed crowd he looked down on at the end of his 
sermon took away from the church the tidings of his 
greater power. From that time nearly every mo- 
ment was taken by the demands of people of position 
and authority, who wished to make the most of him 
before he went back to Marqua. He scarcely saw his 
brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he went 
to the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no 
time to loiter in the garden, and the story of the con- 
version of the people of Marqua was left to the 
quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of his 
Superior’s great work, till Father Tomasso and 
Brother Luigi prayed to be given the opportunity 
to be Ramoni ’s servants in the far-away land of the 
western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in 
the cloister, he did not avoid Father Denfili. The 
old blind priest seemed to meet him everywhere, in 
the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where 
he preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical 
assemblies. Once Ramoni caught a glimpse of his 
face lifted toward him during a conference; and a 
remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden 
gave him the sensation of belief that the old General 
could see, even though Ramoni himself, was the only 
one whom he saw. 


8 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


On the day the letter from the Vatican came, 
Father Ramoni, detained in the cloister by the ex- 
pected visit of a prelate who had expressed his de- 
sire to meet the missionary of Marqna, passed 
Father Denfili on his way to the reception-room. 
While Father Ramoni, summoning his secretary to 
bring some photographs for better explanation of 
the South American missions, went on his way, the 
blind man groped along the wall till he reached the 
General’s office. He had come to the door when he 
felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself 
on the white faces of the General and his assistant, 
who stood gazing mutely at the letter the former 
held. He heard the General call Father Tomasso. 
‘ 4 Take this to Father Pietro, my son,” he said. 
Then he listened to the younger priest’s retreating 
footsteps. 

Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted 
strangeness of the General’s tone, carried the atmos- 
phere of tense and troubled excitement with him 
when he entered the room the prelate was just leav- 
ing. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the 
table where he was returning to their case the photo- 
graphs of Marqua. Tomasso laid the letter before 
him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bid- 
ding his visitor a gay good-bye, turned back. 

Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large 
square envelope. He read it with puzzled wonder 



“ I can’t take it,” he was sobbing, “ it’s a mistake, a terrible mistake.” 






TEE CITY AND TEE WORLD 


9 


rising to his eyes. Before he came to its end he was 
on his feet. 

“No! No l” he cried. “It is impossible. It is a 
mistake. ’ 9 

Father Ramoni turned quickly. The man who 
had been his faithful servant for ten years in Mar- 
qua was very dear to him. “What is a mistake, 
Pietro ?”he asked, coming to the table. 

“The Consistory,” Father Pietro stammered, 
“the Consistory has made a mistake. They have 
done an impossible thing. They have mixed our 
names. This letter to the General — this letter — 99 
he pointed to the document on the table 9 9 — says that 
I have been made Archbishop of Marqua.” 

Ramoni took the letter. As he read it he knew 
what Pietro had not known. The news was genuine. 
The name signed at the letter’s end guaranteed that. 
Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of 
the blow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that 
it was a pain that would stay. He had been passed 
over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who sat weeping 
beside the table, his head buried in his hands. 

“I can’t take it,” he was sobbing; “I am not 
able. It ’s a mistake, a terrible mistake. ’ ’ 

Ramoni put his hand on the other man’s head. 
“It is true, Pietro,” he said. “You are Archbishop 
of Marqua. May God bless you!” 

But he could say no more. Pietro was still weep- 
ing when Ramoni went away, crossing the cloister on 


10 


THE CITY AND THE WORLD 


his way to his cell, where, with the door closed be- 
hind him, he fought the battle of his soul. 


II. 

I N the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat 
looking dully at the softened tones of the wall, 
trying to evolve some order of thought from the 
chaos into which the shock of his disappointment 
had plunged his mind. It was late in the night 
before the situation began to outline itself dimly. 

His first thought was, curiously enough, not of 
himself directly, but of the people out in Marqua 
who were anxiously looking for his return as their 
leader, confident of his appointment to the new 
Archbishopric. He could not face them as the 
servant of another man. From the crowd afar his 
thoughts traveled back to the crowd on the Pincio — 
the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. 
He would go no more to the Pincio, for now they 
would point him out with that cynical amusement 
of the Romans as the man who had been shelved 
for his servant. He resented the fate that had 
uprooted him from Rome ten years before, send- 
ing him to Marqua. He resented the people he had 
converted, Pietro, the Consistory — everything. 
For that black and bitter night the Church, which he 
had loved and reverenced, looked to him like the root 


THE CITY AND THE WOELD 


11 


of all injustice. The more he thought of the slight 
that had been put upon him, the worse it became, till 
the thought arose in him that he would leave the 
Community, leave Rome, leave it all. After long 
hours, anger had full sway in the heart of Father 
Ramoni. 

At midnight he heard the striking of the city’s 
clocks through the windows, the lattices of which he 
had forgotten to close. The sound of the city 
brought back to him the words of the great prelate 
who had returned with him to San Ambrogio from 
his first audience with the Holy Father — “Filius 
urbis et orbis.” How bitterly the city had treated 
him! 

A knock sounded at his door. He walked to it 
and flung it open. His anger had come to the over- 
flowing of speech. At first he saw only a hand at the 
door-casing, groping with a blind man’s uncertainty. 
Then he saw the old General. 

In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion 
against the old man. Instantly, with a memory of 
that first day in the cloister garden, of those follow- 
ing days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny 
glimpses of the priest, he centered all his bitterness 
upon Denfili. So fearful was his anger as he held 
it back with the rein of years of self-control, that he 
wondered to see Father Denfili smiling. 

“May I enter, my son?” he asked. 

“You may enter.” 

2 


12 


TEE CITY AND TEE WOELD 


The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni 
watched him with glowering rage. When Father 
Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him he did not 
flinch. 

4 4 You are disappointed, my son?” the old man 
asked with a gentleness that Ramoni could not ap- 
prehend, “and you can not sleep?” 

Ramoni ’s anger swept the question aside. 

‘ ‘ Have you come here, Father Denfili, ’ 9 he cried, ‘ ‘ to 
find out how well you have finished the persecution 
you began ten years ago ? If you have, you may be 
quite consoled. It is finished to-night.” His anger, 
rushing over the gates, beat down upon the old man, 
who sat wordless before its flood. It was a passion- 
ate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novi- 
tiate when the old man had ever repressed him, a 
story of checks that had been put upon him as a 
preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of 
this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told 
of them all while the old man sat, letting the torrent 
wear itself out on the rocks of patience. Then, after 
Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke. 

“You did not pray, my son?” 

“Pray?” Ramoni ’s laughter rasped. “How 
can I pray? My life is ruined. I am ashamed even 
to meet my brethren in the chapel . 9 ’ 

‘ 4 And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel, ’ ’ the 
old man said. ‘ ‘ God, and God alone ; even if there 
be a thousand present.” 


THE CITY AND THE WORLD 


13 


“God?” flung back the missionary. “What has 
He done to me? Do you think I can thank Him for 
this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was not 
God who did it — it was you! You interfered with 
His work. I know it.” 

“I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If 
He did, then it is right for you. As for me, perhaps 
I am somewhat responsible. I was consulted, and I 
advised Pietro.” 

‘ ‘ Don ’t call me ‘ my son, , ’ ’ cried the other. 

“Is it as bad as that with you?” There was only 
compassion in the old voice. “Yet must I say it — 
my son. With even more reason than ever before I 
must say it to you to-night.” 

The old man’s thin hands were groping about his 
girdle to find the beads that hung down from it. He 
pulled them up to him and laid the string across his 
knees ; but the crucifix that he could not see he kept 
tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic 
eyes were turned to Ramoni who felt again that 
strange impression that he could see, as they 
fixed on his face and stared straight at him without 
a movement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how 
it was that a man may be given a finer vision than 
that of earth, for Father Denfili was looking where 
only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of 
another. 

“Son of the city and the world,” he said. “I 
heard Monsignore call you that, and he was right. 


14 


TEE CITY AND TEE WOULD 


A son of the city and of the world you are; but 
alas ! less of the city than you know, and more of the 
world than you have realized. My son, I am a very 
old man. Perhaps I have not long to live ; and so it 
is that I may tell you why I have come to you to- 
night.” Eamoni started to speak, but the other put 
out his hand. ‘ 4 1 received you, a little boy, into this 
Community. No one knows you better than I do. 
I saw in you before any one else the gifts that 
God had given you for some great purpose. I saw 
them budding. I knew before any one else knew 
that some day you would do a great thing, though I 
did not know what it was that you would do. I was 
a man with little, but I could admire the man who 
had much. I had no gifts to lay before Him, yet I, 
too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make 
you my great work. That was my hope. You are 
the Apostle of Marqua. I am the Apostle of 
Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear 
that I would be cheated of my reward. ’ ’ 

Ramoni turned to him. 4 ‘ Your reward? I do not 
understand.” 

“My reward,” the old man repeated. “I 
watched over you, I instructed you, I prayed for 
you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking 
you, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a 
channel in your soul that your great genius might 
not burst its bonds. I knew that there was conflict 
ever within you between your duty to God and what 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


15 


the world had to offer yon — the old, old conflict be- 
tween the city and the world. I always feared it. 
All unknown to yon I watched the fight, and I saw 
that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent 
you to Marqua.” 

The old man paused, and his trembling hand 
wiped away the tears that streamed down his face. 
Ramoni did not move. “I am afraid, my son,” the 
voice came again, ‘ 4 that you never knew the city — 
well called the Eternal — where with all the evil the 
world has put within its walls the good still shines 
always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, and 
you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has 
no other right to existence at all. There is only one 
royalty that may live in Rome. We, who are of the 
true city, know that. 

‘ ‘ And you, too, might have been of the city. The 
power of saving thousands was given to you. I 
prayed only for the power of saving one. I had to 
send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. 
Only a saint may live to be praised and save himself 
— in Rome. 

“When you went away, my son, you went away 
with a sacrifice as your merit, your salvation. Of 
that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was born. It 
will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if 
you could make it ? Alas, you can not ! Then it will 
have to grow on Pietro’s pain. 

“I have not soen you, for I am blind, but I have 


16 


TEE CITY AND THE WOELD 


heard you. You want to go back an Archbishop to 
finish what you say is 4 your work/ You think that 
your people are waiting. You want to bring the 
splendor of the city to the world. My son, the work 
is not yours. The people are not yours. The city, 
the true city, does not know you, for you have for- 
gotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the 
world an apostle, and you came back to the city a 
conqueror, but no longer an apostle. Can’t you see 
that God does not need conquerors ?” 

The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against 
his breast. “What would you take back to Mar- 
qua V ’ he demanded. ‘ ‘ Nothing but your purple and 
your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten 
to pray in the midst of affliction, teach your people 
how to pray in the midst of their sorrows? Marqua 
does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you 
might have been, but which you are not. The city 
does not need you, for the city needs no man ; but it 
is you who need the city, that you may learn again 
the lesson that once made you the missionary of a 
people. ’ ’ 

Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper 
as the old man’s words died away, there came the 
sound of footsteps pacing in another room. Once 
more the old man took up his speech. 

“They are Pietro’s steps,” he said. “All night 
long I have heard you both. He has been sobbing 
under the burden he believes he is unworthy to bear, 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


17 


while you have been raging that you were not per- 
mitted to bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He 
would be your servant again if he could. He loves 
you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in lov- 
ing you, but I wanted for God your soul and the 
souls you were leading to Him.” 

The old man arose. He put out his hand to grope 
his way back to the door. It touched Ramoni, sitting 
rigid. He did not stir. The hand reached over him, 
caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind 
man to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a 
word he followed the other. When he had overtaken 
him he laid his hand gently on the blind man’s arm 
and led him back to his cell. 

When he came back the door of the chapel was 
open. Ramoni, going within, found Pietro there, 
prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoni knelt at 
the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not 
pray. He only gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. 
And while he knelt the Great Plan unfolded itself to 
him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who has 
traveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, 
looking back, he could see that Pietro ’s had been the 
labor that had won Marqua. There came back to 
him all the memories of his servant’s love of souls, 
his ceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant 
villages, his zeal, his solicitude to save his superior 
for the more serious work of preaching. Pietro had 
been jealous of the slightest infringement on his 


18 


THE CITY AND THE WORLD 


right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Be- 
fore God the conquest of Marqua had been Pietro ’s 
first, since he it was who had toiled and claimed no 
reward. 

A great peace suddenly mantled the troubled 
soul of Father Ramoni, and with it a great love for 
the old General whose hand had struck him. He 
thought of the painting hanging near where he knelt 
— “ Moses Striking the Rock.” The features of 
Father Denfili merged into the features of the Law 
Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the 
rock, barren and unprofitable. He fell on his face, 
and then his prayer came: 

‘ 6 Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if 
there be aught of living water within, let me give one 
drop for thirsty souls yet ere I am called.’ ’ 

He could utter no other prayer. 

Morning found both master and servant, now 
servant and master, before the altar where both were 
servants. 


III. 

I T was fifteen years later when the brethren of the 
little Community of San Ambrogio gathered in 
their chapel to sing the requiem over their founder 
and first General, Father Denfili, w\\o died, old and 
blind, after twenty years of retirement into obscur- 


THE CITY AND THE WOULD 


19 


ity. But there were more than his brethren there. 
For all those years he had occupied, day after day, 
the solitude of a little confessional in the chapel. 
He had had his penitents there, and, in a general 
way, the brethren of San Ambrogio knew that there 
were among them many distinguished ones ; but they 
were not prepared for the revelation that his obse- 
quies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, 
prelates, priests and citizens crowded into the little 
chapel. They were those who had knelt week after 
week at the feet of the saint. 

But there was one penitent, greater than them 
all in dignity and sanctity, who could not come. 
The tears blinded him that morning when he said 
Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul 
of Father Denfili. At the hour of the requiem he 
looked longingly toward Via Paoli, where his old 
spiritual father was lying dead before the altar of 
the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into 
eyes that needed all their vision to gaze far out, 
from his watch-tower, on the City and the World. 



THE FLAMING CROSS 

y 

I. 

I T was already midnight when Orville, Thornton 
and Callovan arose from a table of the club din- 
ing-room and came down in the elevator for their 
hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, 
delightful to all three. This dinner and chat had 
become an annual aifair, to give the old chums of St. 
Wilbur’s a chance to live over college days, and keep 
a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of 
them was old enough to feel much change from the 
spirit of youth. St. Wilbur’s was a fresh memory 
and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or 
society had grown half so precious for any one of 
these three men as were the other two, whom the old 
college had introduced and had bound to him. 

The difference in the appearance of the friends 
was very marked. Thornton had kept his promise 
of growing up as he had started: short, fat and 
jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty- 
five. His stubby mustache was as unmanageable as 
the masters of St. Wilbur’s had found its owner to 
be. He had never affected anything, for he had 
always been openly whatever he allowed himself to 
drift into. Neither of his friends liked many of his 
( 20 ) 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


21 


actions, nor the stories told of him; but they liked 
him personally and were inclined to be silently sorry 
for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both 
Orville and Callovan waited and hoped for “old 
Thornton” ; but the wait had been long and the hope 
very much deferred. 

Callovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair 
of the Milesian spoke for him as clearly as the blue- 
gray eye. He shaved clean and he looked clean. An 
ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him 
to almost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was 
ruddy and fresh. Two years younger than Thorn- 
ton, he yet looked younger by five. And Callovan, 
like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs 
promised. 

Orville was tall and straight. The ghost of a 
black mustache was on his lip. His hair was scanty, 
and was parted carefully. His dress showed taste, 
but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well 
groomed and particular, without obtrusiveness in 
any one of the points. He was just a little taller 
than Callovan ; but he was graver and a great deal 
more thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even 
for an intimate ; but the print was large, if the text 
was puzzling. He looked to be “in” the world, but 
who could say if he were “of” it? 

All three of these friends were very rich. Thorn- 
ton had made his money within five years — a lucky 
mining strike, a quick sale, a move to the city, specu- 


22 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


lation, politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-fire 
story that the other friends never cared to hear the 
details of. Callovan inherited his wealth from his 
hard-fisted old father, who had died but a year be- 
fore. Orville was the richest of the three. He had 
always been rich. His father had died a month be- 
fore he was born. His mother paid for her only 
child with her life. Orville’s guardian had, as soon 
as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur’s Preparatory 
School and then in the College ; but he was a careful 
and wise man, this guardian, so, though plenty of 
money was allowed him, yet the college authorities 
had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing 
boy and youth in amounts that could neither spoil 
nor starve him. It was good for Orville that the 
guardian had been thus wise and the college authori- 
ties thus prudent. He himself was generous and 
kind-hearted ; by nature a spendthrift, but by train- 
ing just a bit of a miser. He had learned a little 
about values during these school and college days. 

“Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville,” said 
the doorman, when the three moved to leave the 
club. 

“Very unlike your careful Michael,” remarked 
Callovan. 

Orville came at once to the defense of his ex- 
emplary chauffeur. “I gave him permission to go 
to St. Mary’s to-night for confession,” he said. 
“Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to con- 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


23 


fession every Saturday night and is a weekly com- 
municant. I can stand a little tardiness once a week 
for the sake of having a man like Michael around. ” 

“Good boy is Michael,’ ’ put in Thornton. “I 
wish I could get just a small dose of his piety. Can- 
didly, I am awfully lonesome sometimes without a 
little of it. 

A page came running up. “Telephone for you, 
Mr. Orville,” he said; and at almost the same mo- 
ment the doorman called out: “Your car is here 
now, sir.” Orville went to the telephone booth, but 
returned in a moment. 

‘ ‘ Lucky for us that we waited, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ It was 
Marion who called. She is at the Congress, and she 
wants me to take her home. She came down-town 
with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and 
that worthless pup has gone off and left her. She 
knew that I was here to-night, and ’phoned, hoping 
to catch me. We will pass around by the hotel and 
take her back with us.” 

When the friends came out, Michael was standing 
with his hand on the knob of the big limousine’s 
door. ‘ ‘ I am sorry if I made you wait, sir, ’ ’ he said. 
“I had a fainting spell in the church and could not 
get away sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart 
attack ; but I am all right now. ’ ’ 

Orville answered kindly. “I am sorry you were 
ill, Michael, but we are glad enough that you were 
late. That ill wind for you blew good to us, for 


24 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been 
on time we would have missed her. Go around to 
the Congress first.’ ’ 

The car glided down Michigan avenue to the 
hotel, where Marion was already waiting in the 
ladies’ lobby. She looked just what she was, the 
pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. To- 
night her cheeks were flushed and her hand was very 
unsteady. Orville noticed both when she entered the 
car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancee. 
He knew that she was usually full of life and spirit ; 
but this midnight gaiety worried him, and all the 
more that he loved the girl sincerely. 

Marion talked fast and furiously, railing continu- 
ally at her brother; but she averted her face from 
Orville as much as possible and spoke to Thornton. 
Orville said nothing after he had greeted her. 

The car sped on, passed the club again and down 
toward the bridge at the foot of the avenue. Marion 
was scolding at Thornton as they approached the 
bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staring 
straight ahead, so only he saw Michael’s hand make 
a quick movement toward the controller, and another 
movement, at the same time, as if his foot were try- 
ing to press on the brake; but both movements 
seemed to fall short and Michael’s head dropped on 
his breast. Alarmed, Orville looked up. He had a 
swift glimpse of a flashing red light. A chain 
snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


25 


Thornton, and a scream from Marion. Then, in an 
instant, he felt the great weight falling, and a flood 
of cold water poured through the open window of 
the car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of 
water against it made this impossible. The car filled 
and the door moved. He was pushed out. He 
thought of saving Marion ; but all was dark around 
him. He tried to call, but the water choked him. 
He could only think a prayer, before he seemed to be 
falling asleep. Everything was fading away before 
him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; 
so only vaguely did he realize the tragedy that had 
fallen upon him. 


II. 

W IEN light and vision came back to Orville, he 
was standing up and vaguely wondering why. 
Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side by 
side. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All 
were changed ; but Orville could not understand just 
in what the change consisted. In Thornton and 
Marion the change was not good to look at, and 
Orville somehow felt that it was becoming more 
marked as he gazed. Michael was almost trans- 
formed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on 
his face. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville 
naturally smiled back at them. Thornton was frown- 
ing, and Marion looked horrible in her terror. 


26 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced 
about him and saw thousands of men and women, all 
smiling or frowning, like his companions. Several 
seemed to be about to begin a journey and were mov- 
ing away from the groups, most of them alone. 
Some had burdens strapped to their shoulders and 
bent under them as they walked. Those who were 
not departing were preparing for departure; but 
Orville could see no guides about. All the travelers 
appeared to understand where they were to go. 

Orville watched the groups divide again and 
again, wondering still, not knowing the reason for 
the division. Some took a road that led upward to 
a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome 
road. Orville could see men and women far above 
on that road, dragging themselves along painfully. 
Another road led down into a valley; but Orville 
could not see deep into that valley, because of a haze 
which hung over it. He looked long at the road be- 
fore he noticed letters on a rock which rose up like 
a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that later 
he would go over and read them. But first he wanted 
to ask questions. 

“Michael, what does all this mean?” Orville 
said; all the time marveling that it was to his 
servant he turned for information. 

Michael still smiled, and answered: “It means, 
sir, that we are dead.” 


TEE FLAMING CEOSS 


27 


Orville was astonished that he felt neither 
shocked nor startled. “Dead? I do not quite under- 
stand, Michael. You are not joking?” 

“No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over 
the bridge a minute ago. Our bodies are in the river 
now, but we are here.” 

“Where?” asked Orville. 

Michael answered, “That I do not know, sir, 
except that we are in The Land of the Dead. ’ ’ 

“But you seem to know a great deal, Michael,” 
said Orville. 

“Yes,” answered Michael; “I died a minute be- 
fore you, sir, so I came earlier. I was dead on my 
seat when we struck the chain and broke it. One 
learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can 
you see anything at the top of that mountain?” 

Orville looked up and saw a bright light before 
him on the very summit and seemingly at the end of 
the road. As he gazed it took the form of a Flaming 
Cross. 

“I see a Cross on fire, Michael,” he said. 
Michael answered simply: “Thank God.” 

“I can see a Flaming Cross, too,” said Callovan, 
speaking for the first time. “I can see it, and what 
is more, I am going up to it; let us not delay an 
instant”; and Callovan began to gird his strange- 
looking garment about him for the climb. 

Then Orville knew that he himself was drawn 
toward that Flaming Cross. There was a something 
3 


28 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


urging him on. His whole being was filled with a 
desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared 
quickly for the ascent. 

4 4 Wait a moment, sir,” said Michael. 4 4 Do the 
others see nothing on the mountain !” 

Thornton and Marion, still frowning, were look- 
ing down into the haze of the valley. They were 
paying no attention to their friends. 

4 4 Come, let us go,” said Thornton to the girl, as 
he pointed to the road which led down into the val- 
ley. 

4 4 No, no,” said Michael, 4 4 not there. Look up at 
the mountain. What do you see!” 

Both Marion and Thornton glanced upward. 44 I 
see nothing,” said Marion. 

44 I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant- 
looking,” said Thornton. 4 4 Come, Marion, let us go 
at once.” 

Orville, alarmed, called out: 4 4 Marion, you will 
surely come with me. ’ ’ 

The frown on her face changed to a look of awful 
sadness, but she put her hand into Thornton’s while 
saying to Orville: 44 I can not go there with you — 
not upward. I must enter the valley with him.” 
She moved away, her hand still in Thornton’s. Or- 
ville watched them go, only wondering why he had 
no regrets. 

4 4 Michael, ’ ’ he said, 4 4 1 loved her on earth. Why 
am I unmoved to see her leave me!” 


But when their feet touched the road, they turned and looked their terror. 





* 















\ 












TEE FLAMING CROSS 


29 


But Michael answered, ^ 4 It is not strange in The 
Land of the Dead. There are stranger partings 
here ; but all of them are like yours — tearless for 
those who see the Cross.” 

Thornton and Marion by this time had entered 
the valley road and were on the other side of the 
rock gateway. But when their feet touched the road 
they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they 
recoiled and struck viciously at each other. Then 
they parted. With the wide road between them they 
went down into the valley and the haze together. 

Orville read the words on the rock gateway, for 
now they stood out so that he could see plainly, and 
they were: “THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING.” 
“Michael,” he said, “what does it mean?” 

Michael answered, “She could not see the Cross 
here, who would not see it on earth. It repelled him, 
who so often had repelled it in life.” 

III. 

N EITHER Orville nor Callovan was at all moved 
by the tragedy each had witnessed. Orville’s 
love for Marion was as if it had never existed. The 
friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slight- 
est assert itself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the 
overpowering sense of another feeling — a feeling 
of victory for some Great Friend or Cause — left 
the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men 


30 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


knew that Thornton and Marion had passed out of 
their ken forever, and in the future would be to them 
as if they had not been. All three made haste to go 
toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. 
Then upon Orville’s shoulders he felt a heavy bur- 
den, but still heavier was one which was bending 
Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight, with- 
out a weight upon him. 

“It will he hard to climb to the Cross with these 
burdens, Michael,” said Orville. 

“Yes, sir, it will,” said Michael, “but you must 
carry them. You brought them here. They are the 
burdens of your wealth. They will hamper you; 
but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be 
well.” 

“Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches'?” 
asked both Orville and Callovan in the same breath. 

“They are your riches,” replied Michael. “I 
have no burden, for I had no riches. Poor was I on 
earth, and unhampered am I now for the climb to the 
Cross. Look yonder.” He pointed to a man stand- 
ing at the fork of the roads. His burden was weigh- 
ing him to the earth. “He brought it all with him, 
sir, ’ ’ continued Michael ; “in life he gave nothing to 
God. Now he must carry the burden up to the 
Cross, or leave it and go the other road. He sees the 
Cross, too ; but it will take ages for him to reach it. ’ 9 

The man had thrown down the burden and now 
started to climb without it. But unseen hands lifted 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


31 


it back to his shoulders. Men and women going to 
the other road beckoned him to throw it away again 
and come with them ; but he had seen the Cross and, 
keeping his eyes fixed upon it, he crawled along with 
his burden upon him, inch by inch, up the mountain. 

“In life he was good and faithful, but he did not 
understand that riches were given him to use for a 
purpose and that he was not, himself, the purpose ,’ ’ 
said Michael. “It was a miracle of grace that he 
could see the Cross at all.” 

“I knew that man in life,” said Callovan. “But 
why is not my burden heavier than his? I was 
richer by far . 9 9 

“You lightened it by more charity than he,” said 
Michael, “but you did not lighten it sufficiently. 
Had you given even one-tenth of all that you had, 
you would now be even as I am — free of all bur- 
den.” 

“I wish I had known that,” said Callovan. 

“But, alas! you did know,” replied Michael. 
“We all knew these things. We are not learning 
them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man 
with the heavy burden above you. You are going to 
pass him on your way, yet he has been dead now for 
a year.” 

Callovan looked up and gasped: “My father!” 

“Yes; your father,” said Michael. “You had 
more charity than he, and when you did give you 
gave with better motives; yet he always saw the 


32 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


Cross more plainly than you. He was filled with 
Faith. ’ ’ 

“Is it possible that I will be able to help him 
when I get to his side?” asked Callovan. 

“I think,” replied Michael, “that you may; but 
you could have helped him better in life by prayers 
and the Great Sacrifice. You probably may go along 
with him, when you reach him, for you both see the 
Cross, and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him 
up the mountain.” 

They had by this time reached the first steps of 
the climb. Orville could read the words which 
marked the mountain road: “THE KOAD OF 
PAIN AND HOPE.” 

“But the Cross draws much of the pain out of 
it,” said Michael. “We must leave you here, sir,” 
he said’ to Callovan, turning to him. “You have 
far to go to reach your father; but your load is 
heavier than my master’s, and then you must be 
lonely for a while.” 

“But why must I be lonely?” asked Callovan. 

“For many reasons, sir,” replied Michael. “You 
will know them all as you go along. Knowledge will 
come. I may tell you but a few things now. In life 
you loved company, and it was often an occasion of 
sin to you. You go alone for a while in the Land 
of Death, on this pilgrimage to the Cross, so that 
you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to en- 
joy by meditation, when you could have had Him 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


33 


alone. Then you have few to pray for you now, for 
such companions as you had in life did not and do 
not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers ; 
but the only prayers will be those of the poor whom 
you befriended. One priest, after your funeral, 
will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He was a 
friend whom you helped to educate. He will remem- 
ber you at your burial, and again, too, before the 
climb is over.” 

“But, Michael , ’ ’ said Callovan, “I gave a great 
deal to many good works. Will none of the gifts 
count for me?” 

“Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but,” 
answered Michael, “the gifts were offerings more 
often to your own vanity than they were to God. 
Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the 
Land of Death. Look, now, behind you. There is 
one who can best answer your question.” 

Callovan turned to see an old and venerable look- 
ing man at the fork of the roads. He was gazing 
anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw the 
Cross ; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It 
rested on the ground before him. He scarcely had 
the courage to take the mountain road, knowing that 
the burden must go with him. 

“I have seen that man before,” said Orville. 
“They gave him a reception at our club once. He 
was a great philanthropist — yet, look at his bur- 
den.” 


34 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


“Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on 
The Road without Ending,’ ’ said Michael. “He has 
many amongst those who can hate for eternity to 
hate him.” 

Suddenly from the multitude of the dead came 
men and women, who looked with hatred upon the 
old man, and surrounded him on every side and 
menaced him with threatening fists. “Beast!” 
shouted one. “I saw the Cross in life, when I was 
young. The unbelief your work taught denies me 
the sight of it in death. I curse you ! ’ ’ 

“One year in the schools you founded,” wailed 
another, “lost me my God.” 

“Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of 
the Cross, you hypocrite?” cried another. “You 
have, in the name of a false science, encouraged by 
your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You 
shall not go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even 
though you might have to climb till Judgment. You 
shall go with us.” 

Screaming in terror, the old man was dragged 
away. They could hear his voice in the distance, as 
the multitude drove him along The Road without 
Ending. 

“Alas, I understand — now,” sadly said Callo- 
van. He gazed at his friends with some of the 
pain of his coming solitude in his eyes. Good-bye. 
Shall we meet again?” 

Michael answered : “We shall meet again. Your 


TEE FLAMING CBOSS 


35 


pain may be very great; but there is an end. He 
who sets his foot on this Road has a promise which 
makes even pain a blessing.' ' 

Callovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael 
climbed faster than he. 

“Michael,” said his master, “I am greatly fa- 
vored. He was much better in life than I, yet now 
he climbs alone.” 

“You are not favored, sir,” answered Michael. 
“Many pray for you, because you loved the poor 
and sheltered and aided them. He has all that is 
his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is 
yours. Do not forget that we are marching toward 
the Sun of Justice.” 

And so they went on, over The Road of Pain and 
Hope. Orville's feet were weary and bleeding. His 
hands and knees were bruised by falls. The adders 
stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain 
chilled him and warm blasts oppressed him. He was 
one great pain ; but within a voice that was his own 
kept saying: “I go to the Cross, I go to the Cross,” 
and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for 
an instant; but the thought brought him no longing 
to return. His breast was swelling and seemed 
bursting with a wonderful great Love that made him 
content with every tortured step. He even seemed 
to love the pain ; and he could not stop, nor could he 
rest for the Flaming Cross that was drawing him 
on. He longed for it with a burning and intense 


36 


TEE FLAMING CEOSS 


desire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devo- 
tion, and his whole being cried out : ‘ ‘ More pain, O 
Lord! more pain, if only I may sooner reach the 
Cross !” 

But Michael tried to ease his master’s burden. 

At last Orville said to him: “How many ages 
have passed since I died?” 

“You have been dead for ten minutes, sir,” an- 
swered Michael. “The minutes are as ages in the 
Land of Death until you reach the Cross, and then 
the ages are as minutes.” 


IV. 

T HEY kept toiling on, but had known no darkness 
along The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville’s 
hand sought Michael’s, and it opened to draw him 
closer. “Michael, my brother,” he said, “may you 
tell me why there is no night!” 

Michael smiled again when Orville called him 
“brother” and answered: “Because, my master, 
on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair ; 
but it is always night along The Road without End- 
ing.” 

“Can you tell me, Michael, my brother,” said 
Orville, “Why my eyes suffer more keenly than all 
the rest?” 

“Because,” said Michael, “your eyes, master, 


THE FLAMING CEOSS 


37 


have offended most in life, and so are now the weak- 
est.” 

“But my hands have offended, too,” said Orville, 
4 ‘ and behold, they are already painless and cured of 
the bruises.” 

“Your hands are beautiful and white, master,” 
said Michael, “and were little punished, because 
they were often outstretched in charity and in good 
deeds.” 

They had come to the brink of a Chasm which it 
seemed impossible to cross, hut they hoped, for they 
knew no despair. Multitudes of people were before 
them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at 
the other side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by 
unseen hands, and carried across the Chasm. Some 
Power tliere was to bear them which neither Orville 
nor Michael understood. Many, however, had 
waited long, while some were taken quickly. Every 
hand was outstretched toward the Cross, and it could 
easily be seen that waiting was a torture worse than 
the bruises. 

“Alas, Michael,” said Orville, “it is harder to 
suffer the wait than the pain.” 

“Yes, master,” Michael replied, “but this is The 
Chasm of Neglected Duties. We must stay until 
those we have fulfilled may come to bear us across. 
The one who goes first will await the other on the 
opposite side.” 

“Alas, Michael,” said Orville, “you must wait 


38 


TEE FLAMING CEOSS 


for me. I have few good deeds and few duties well 
done.” 

Even as he spoke, Michael’s face began to shine 
and his eyes were melting.* Orville looked and saw a 
little child with great wings, and beautiful beyond 
all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with 
the deepest love and longing. Her voice was like the 
music of a harp, and she spoke but one little word : 

4 ‘Daddy!” 

“Bride! My little Bride,” whispered Michael. 

Orville knew her, Michael’s first-born child, who 
had died in infancy. He remembered her funeral. 
In pity for poor Michael, and feeling a duty toward 
his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church 
and to the grave, and had borne the expenses of her 
burial. His friends wondered at such consideration 
for one so far beneath him. 

“Daddy,” whispered the beautiful spirit, “I am 
to bring you across, and master, too. God sent me. 
And, daddy, there are millions of children who could 
bring their parents over quickly, if they had only let 
them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who 
gave me life, baptism and Heaven. Had I lived only 
a minute, it would have been worth it. And, daddy, 
mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for you 
both.” 

Then the beautiful child touched and supported 
them, and lo ! they were wafted across The Chasm 
of Neglected Duties: Michael, because he followed 


THE FLAMING CROSS 


39 

the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacra- 
ment to fulfil the law of God ; Orville, because he had 
shown mercy and recognition of his servant’s claim 
upon him. 

Without understanding why, Orville found him- 
self repeating over and over again the words : 
'‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain 
mercy.” Michael heard him and turned to say: 
"Yes, master, and 'Blessed are the clean of heart, 
for they shall see God’ ! How well it was for us that 
we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when 
we came to The Chasm of Neglected Duties.” 


V. 

M ICHAEL,” said Orville, after a long and tire- 
some climb over a steep part of the Boad, 
' ' these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I have 
toiled hard and have made but very little progress.” 

' ' I know, master, ’ ’ said Michael, ' ' but these rocks 
are the little faults of our lives. Such rocks cover 
the mountain at this spot and are constantly grow- 
ing more numerous, yet one meets only one’s own. 
The Plain is not far away now. We are just reach- 
ing it, and these stones are the only way to it.” 
"What Plain is it, Michael!” asked Orville. 

"It is called, master,” said Michael, "The Plain 
of Sinful Things. It is between us and the foot of 
the Cross.” 


40 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


“Is it hard to pass over, Michael ?” again asked 
Orville. 

‘ 4 It is very hard to most men, sir,” said Michael. 
“No one knows how hard who has not been on it; 
and yet when one has been over, one remembers 
nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross 
is reached.” 

They stood now at the top of the stones, and on 
the edge of the vast Plain, which lay white and 
scorching before them. Multitudes, as far as the eye 
could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully 
along; but none stopped to rest, for all faces were 
turned to The Flaming Cross. 

Michael took but one step and a great change 
came over him. Orville looked at him again and 
again, but Michael did not seem to notice the change 
in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. 
His garments became robes of brilliant white. About 
his head a light played, the like of which Orville had 
never seen. It was more wondrous than dreams of 
Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone 
like his visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet 
voices about Michael, but voices which spoke to 
Michael only. 

“Michael, my brother,” he said, “what is this; 
tell me?” and Orville’s voice sounded soft, as if he 
were praying. “Michael, who are you?” 

But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. “I 
am none other than your servant, sir, ’ ’ he answered. 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


41 


“He who serves, reigns ; for his glory is in the serv- 
ice. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In 
life you were a good master. You will need me until 
you reach your own Master there. ’ ’ Michael pointed 
to where the Cross shone out over the blistering 
Plain. 

Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to 
Orville’s very marrow and he seemed to faint under 
it, yet he always kept struggling forward. The 
burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the 
anguish did not halt him. Torrents of tears and 
sweat rolled down from him, but his hunger for the 
Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body it 
felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but 
Orville was more grateful than ever for it. 

“Does this heat really come from the Cross, 
Michael ?” he asked. 

“Yes, from the Cross, master,” said Michael, 
“for this is The Plain of Sinful Things, and the 
Cross is the Sun of Justice.” 

Then like a flash Orville began to understand, 
even as Michael had understood from the beginning. 
Michael saw the change in him. His face became 
more radiant before he spoke. 

“Master,” he said, “my service is almost over. 
It was my prayer constantly that I could return your 
goodness to me and mine; but on earth you were 
rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of 
the Dead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me 


42 


TEE FLAMING CROSS 


make my pilgrimage with you. The child you buried 
when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm of 
Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be 
found. You did not even see another Chasm, which 
almost all meet, The Chasm of Forgotten Things, 
for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which you 
builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day 
after you did it, filled up the Chasm before you came 
to it. Here on The Plain of Sinful Things we would 
naturally separate, for I had never wilfully sinned 
against God. But you needed me, and He let me 
stay. Master, your burden has fallen from you.” 

It was true. Orville was standing erect, with his 
eyes looking straight at The Flaming Cross, which 
did not blind him. His burden had vanished, and his 
face had almost the radiance of MichaePs. 

“The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It 
comes toward you. Your pilgrimage is ending.” 

Orville could see It coming, gently and slowly. 
The Plain was now all behind him, and yet it seemed 
as if he had scarcely gone over more than a few 
yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was 
not sweet enough for the music that filled the air. 
Like the falling of many waters in the distance came 
the promise of coolness to Orville’s parched throat 
and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt 
his heart, full of Love, break in his bosom ; but with 
it broke the bond of Sin, and he knew that he was 


THE FLAMING CEOSS 43 

dead, indeed, to earth, as out from the stained cover 
came his purified soul. 

The Cross was close to him now. With his new 
spiritual vision he saw that in form it was One like 
himself, but One with eyes that were soft and mild 
and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched and 
nail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a 
wounded side and out from it a flood pouring which 
cooled the parched sands, so that from them the 
flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form 
and beauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The 
Flaming Cross fluttered countless wings, and child- 
ish voices made melody, soft and harmonious beyond 
all compare. All else that Orville ever knew van- 
ished before the glance of the Beloved; faces and 
forms dearest and nearest, old haunts and older 
affections, all were melted into this One Great Love 
that is Eternal. The outstretched arms were 
wrapped around them. The blood from the wounded 
side washed all their pains from them. On their 
foreheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and 
Michael had come home. 



4 


THE VICAR-GENERAL 


HE Vicar-General was dead. With his long, 



white hair smoothed back, he lay upon a silk 


pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon 
his breast. He was clad in priestly vestments ; and 
he looked, as he lay in his coffin before the great altar 
with the candles burning on it, as if he were just 
ready to arise and begin a new “ Introibo” in 
Heaven. The bells of the church wherein the Vicar- 
General lay asleep had called his people all the 
morning in a sad and solemn tolling. The people 
had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They 
were gathered about the bier of their pastor. 
Priests from far and near had chanted the Office of 
the Head; the Requiem Mass was over, and the 
venerable chief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, 
stood in cope and mitre, to give the last Absolution. 

The Bishop had loved the Vicar-General — had 
loved him as a brother. For was it not the Vicar- 
General who had bidden His Lordship welcome, 
when he came from his distant parish to take up the 
cares of a diocese. With all the timidity of a stran- 
ger, the Bishop had feared; but the Vicar-General 
guided his steps safely and well. Now the Bishop, 
gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered — 


( 44 ) 





, -k. >s 


rhe Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the last absolution.” 



TEE VICAR-GENERAL 


45 


and wept. In the midst of the Absolution, his voice 
broke. Priests bit their lips, as their eyes filled with 
hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in the paro- 
chial school and their little charges, did not attempt 
to keep back their sobs. For others than the Bishop 
loved the Vicar-General. 

There was one standing by the coffin, whom 
neither the Bishop, priests nor people saw. It 
was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore his 
priestly ' 'stments. Was he not a priest forever 1 
His arms ere folded and his face was troubled. 
He knew every one present ; but none of them knew 
that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the 
Bishop’s face and seemed to wonder at his tears. 
He was quite unmoved by the sorrow around him, 
did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar- 
General had cared much about the feelings of others 
toward him. His eyes wandered over the great con- 
gregation and rested on the children, but without 
tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike the 
Vicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested 
on the priestly form in the coffin, and the trouble of 
them increased. 

The Absolution was over and the coffin was 
closed when the Vicar-General looked up again, and 
knew that Another Unseen besides himself was pres- 
ent. The Other was looking over the coffin at the 
Vicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that 
searched down deep and with lashes that were very, 


46 


TEE VICAB-GENEEAL 


very still. He wore a long robe of some texture the 
Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered 
like silk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted 
with tiny diamonds. The hair of the Other was long, 
and fell, bright and beautiful, over his shoulders. 
His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in a 
gold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly 
in spite of his beardless face. The Vicar-General 
noticed what seemed like wings behind him; but 
they were not wings, only something which gave the 
impression of them. The Vicar-General could not 
remove his eyes from the Other. Gradually he knew 
that he was gazing at an Angel, and an Angel who 
had intimate relation to himself. 

The body was borne out of the church. The 
Angel moved to follow, and the Vicar-General knew 
that he also had to go. The day was perfect, for it 
was in the full glory of the summer ; but the Vicar- 
General noticed little of either the day or the gather- 
ing. The Angel did not speak, but his eyes said 
“come”: and so the Vicar-General followed — 
whither, he did not know. 

The Vicar-General was not sure that it was even 
a place to which the Angel led him ; but he felt with 
increasing trouble that he was to be the center of 
some momentous event. There were people arriv- 
ing, most of whom the Vicar-General knew — men 
and women of his flock, to whom he had ministered 
and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled 


THE VICAR-GENERAL 


47 


at the Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged 
themselves on one side. The Silent Angel stood 
very close to the Vicar-General. As the people came 
near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon 
him, as if they were lifting him in the air. They 
shone very brightly, too, and took on a new beauty. 
The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearing 
them. 

The Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a 
word; yet the Vicar-General understood at once, 
knew that he was to answer at a stern trial, and 
that these were his witnesses — the souls of the 
people to whom he ministered, to whom he had bro- 
ken the Bread of Life. How many there were! 
They gladdened the Vicar-General’s heart. There 
were his converts, the children he had baptized, his 
penitents, the pure virgins whose vows he had con- 
secrated to God, the youths whom his example had 
won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar- 
General counted them, and he could not think of a 
single one missing. 

On the other side, witnesses began to arrive and 
the Vicar-General ’s look of trouble returned. He 
felt his priestly vestments becoming heavy. Espe- 
cially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was 
like a heavy iron helmet crushed down over his 
shoulders. The cincture was binding him very 
tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it. 
The maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. 


48 


TEE VICAR-GENERAL 


The stole was pulling at him, and the weight of the 
chasuble made him very faint. 

He knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. 
He had seen these few before. They were his neg- 
lected spiritual children. He remembered each and 
every case. One was a missed sick-call : his had been 
the fault. Another was a man driven from the 
church by a harsh word spoken in anger. The Vicar- 
General remembered the day when he referred to 
this man in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew 
and leave. He did not return. Another was a priest 
— his own assistant. The Vicar-General had no pa- 
tience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them 
his feelings had turned to rancor against the man — 
and the assistant was lost. The Vicar-General trem- 
bled; for these things he had passed by as either 
justified by reason of the severity necessary to his 
office, or as wiped out by his virtues — and he had 
many virtues. 

The Vicar-General’s eyes sought those of the 
Silent Angel, and he lost some of his fear, while the 
weight of his vestments became a little lighter. But 
the Silent Angel’s gaze caused the Vicar-General 
again to look at the witnesses. Those against him 
were increasing. The faces of the new-comers he 
did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protest- 
ing that there must be some mistake, for the new- 
comers were red men, brown men, yellow men and 
black men, besides white men whose faces were alto- 


THE VICAB-GENEBAL 


49 


getlier strange. He was sure none of these had ever 
been in his parish. The new-comers were dressed in 
the garbs of every nation under the sun. They all 
alike looked very sternly at the Vicar-General, so 
that he could not bear their glances. Still he could 
not understand how he had ever offended against 
them, nor could he surmise why they should be wit- 
nesses to his hurt. 

The Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar- 
General; but the troubled soul of the priest could 
find no enlightenment in his eyes. All the while wit- 
nesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filled 
him with a great terror. 

At last he saw a face amongst the strangers which 
he thought familiar, and he began to understand. It 
was the face of a priest he had known, who had been 
in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-Gen- 
eral J s authority. On earth this priest had been one 
of the quiet kind, without ambition except to serve 
in a very humble way. He had always been in a 
parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had 
in his manner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected 
its humility and its poverty. The Vicar-General 
remembered that the priest had once come to him 
as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was 
not complaining, nevertheless he really needed help 
and counsel. He said that his scattered flock was 
being lost for the want of things which could not be 
supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar- 


50 


THE VICAR-GENERAL 


General what was needed. The Vicar-General re- 
membered that he had agreed with him ; but had in- 
formed him very gently that it was the policy of the 
diocese to let each parish maintain and support 
itself. The Vicar-General had felt justified in refus- 
ing his aid, especially since, at that time, he was col- 
lecting for a new organ for his own church, one with 
three banks of keys — the old one had but two. The 
Vicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of 
worry at the time was not groundless; but while 
then he had felt vaguely that he was wrong in 
his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes 
sought all through his own witnesses, but they found 
no likelihood of a testimony in his favor based on the 
purchase of that grand organ. Then it all came to 
the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel, 
that he had received on earth all the reward that was 
due to him for it. 

The presence of the men of all colors and of 
strange garbs was still a mystery to the Vicar-Gen- 
eral; but at last he saw among them a bent old 
priest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. 
At once the Vicar-General recognized him and his 
heart sank. Too well he remembered the poor mis- 
sionary who had begged for assistance: money, a 
letter, a recommendation — anything ; and had 
faced the inflexible official for half an hour during 
his pleading. The Vicar-General had felt at that 
time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had 


THE VICAB-GENEBAL 


51 


come to him, that there was so much to be done at 
home, absolutely nothing could be sent out. There 
was the Orphanage which the Bishop was building 
and they were just beginning to gather funds for a 
new Cathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the 
Vicar-General ’s ruling. The diocese had flourished 
and had grown strong. The Vicar-General had al- 
ways been its pride. He was humbled now under the 
gaze of the Silent Angel, whose eyes told him where- 
in he had been at fault. He knew that the fault was 
not in the building of the great and beautiful things, 
which of themselves were good because they were 
for God’s glory; but rather was it in this: that he 
had shut out of his heart, for their sakes, the cry of 
affliction and the call of pleading voices from the 
near and far begging but for the crumbs which meant 
to them Faith here and Life hereafter. 

Now, 0 God ! there were the red men, the brown 
men, the yellow men and the black men; not to 
speak of these white men whose faces were so 
strange; and they were going to say something — 
something against him. He could guess — could 
well guess what it was they would say. The Vicar- 
General knew that he had been wrong, and that his 
wrong had come into Eternity. He doubted if it 
ever could be made right, for he knew now the value 
of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was 
it too late? His vestments were as heavy as lead. 


52 


THE VICAR-GENERAL 


Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General 
looked for his Judge ; but he could not see Him. He 
only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had a 
book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its 
title. There was a chalice on the cover, as if it spoke 
of priests, and under it he read: 

THE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED. 

The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar- 
General saw that it had but one page. Shining out 
from the page he read: 

u THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER. ’ 9 

And under it: 

‘ ‘ GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS. ’ ’ 

Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the 
hope in the eyes of the Silent Angel gave him hope, 
as he bowed his head before the judgment. 



THE RESURRECTION 
OF ALTA 

V 

F ATHER BROIDY rushed down the stone steps 
and ran toward the Bishop ’s carriage which had 
just stopped at the curb. He flung open the 
door before the driver could alight, kissed the ring 
on the hand extended him, helped its owner out 
and with a beaming face led the Bishop to the pretty 
and comfortable rectory. 

“Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop,’ ’ he said 
as they entered the house, “and sure the whole Dean- 
ery is here to back it up.” 

The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down 
the stairs echoing the greeting. The Bishop knew 
them all, and he was happy, for well was he aware 
that every man meant what he said. No one really 
ever admired the Bishop, but all loved him, and each 
had a private reason of his own for it that he never 
confided to anyone save his nearest crony. They 
were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta 
— the poorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hope- 
less three years ago, but now — well, there it is across 
the lot, that symphony in stone, every line of its 

( 53 ) 


54 


TEE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 


chaste gothic a “Te Deum” that even an agnostic 
could understand and appreciate ; every bit of carv- 
ing the paragraph of a sermon that passers-by, per- 
force, must hear. To-day it is to be consecrated, the 
cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy’s Arch of 
Triumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin. 

“I thought you had but sixteen families here,” 
said the Bishop as he watched the crowd stream into 
the church. 

“ There were but eighteen, Bishop,” the young 
priest answered, with a happy smile that had consid- 
erable self-satisfaction in it. ‘ 4 There are seventy- 
five now. ’ ’ 

1 4 And how did it come about, my lad ? ’ ’ questioned 
the Bishop. 

“Mostly through my mission bringing back some 
of the ‘ ought-to-be ’s,’ but I suppose principally be- 
cause my friend McDermott opened his factory to 
Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was 
born one of us he had somehow acquired a bitter 
hatred of the Church, and he never employed Cath- 
olics until I brought him around. ’ ’ 

There was a shadow of a smile that had meaning 
to it on the Bishop’s face, as he patted the ardent 
young pastor on the arm, and said : 

“Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I 
suppose we must begin to vest now. Is it not near 
ten o’clock?” 

Father Broidy turned with a little shade of dis- 


TEE BESUBBECTION OF ALTA 


55 


appointment on his face to the work of preparation, 
and soon had the procession started toward the 
church. 

Shall I describe the beauty of it all? — the lights 
and flowers, the swinging censers, with the glory of 
the chant and the wealth of mystic symbolism which 
followed the passing of that solemn procession into 
the sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like 
the feeling in the heart of the young pastor who 
adored every line of the building. He had watched 
the laying of each stone, and could almost count the 
chips that had jumped from every chisel. There had 
never been so beautiful a day to him, and never 
such a ceremony but one — three years ago in the 
Seminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory 
of the present. Hear me, how well Kaiser did 
preach ! He always knew it, did Father Broidy, that 
young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a 
bit of the congratulations. They were a part of 
Father Broidy ’s triumph, too. It was small wonder 
that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way 
back to the rectory : 

“You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list 
now. He has surely won his spurs to-day. ’ 9 

But again the shadow of the meaning smile was 
on the Bishop’s face, and he said nothing; so the 
Dean looked wise and mysterious as he slapped the 
young pastor on the back and said : 


50 THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 

“Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, 
and I am proud of you, but wait and listen.” Then 
his voice dropped to a whisper. “ I was talking to 
the Bishop, about you.” 

The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not 
that enough to say? But perhaps you have never 
tasted Anne’s cooking? Then you surely have heard 
of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and every- 
one said that Broidy was in his usual good luck 
when Anne left the Dean’s and went to keep house 
for the priest at Alta. 

Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and 
a chance to rub up the wit that had been growing 
rusty in the country missions for months never 
passed by unnoticed. 

The Dean was toastmaster. 

“ Right Beverend Bishop and Beverend Fa- 
thers,” he began, when he had enforced silence with 
the handle of his fork, < ‘it is my pleasure and pride 
to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest 
was sent to one of the most miserably poor places in 
the Diocese. What he found you all know. The sor- 
rowful history of the decline of Alta was never a 
secret record. Eighteen careless families left. 
Bigotry rampant. Factories closed to Catholics. 
Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for a dwelling 
place. That was three years ago, and look around 
you to-day. See the church, house and school, and 
built out of what? That is Father Broidy ’s work 


THE EESUEEECTION OF ALTA 57 

and Father Broidy’s triumph, but we are glad of it. 
No man has made such a record in our Diocese 
before. What have we others done by the side of his 
extraordinary effort? Yet we are not jealous. We 
know well the good qualities of soul and body in our 
young friend, and God bless him. We are pleased to 
be with him, though completely outclassed. We 
rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me now call 
upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us 
is always a joy.” 

When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, 
and for an instant stood again with that meaning 
smile just lighting his face. For that instant he did 
not utter a word. When he did speak there was a 
quiver in his voice that age had never planted and in 
spite of the jokes which had preceded and the laugh- 
ter which he had led, it sounded like a forerunner of 
tears. He had never been called eloquent, this 
kindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when 
he spoke it was always with a gentle dignity, and a 
depth of sympathy and feeling that compelled atten- 
tion. 

“It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers,” he 
began, “to find so many of you here to rejoice with 
our young friend and his devoted people, and to thus 
encourage the growth of a priestly life which he has 
so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success 
more than I. No one more warmly than I, his 
Bishop, tenders congratulations. This is truly a day 


58 THE BESUBBECTION OF ALTA 

the Lord has made — this day in Alta. It is a day of 
joy and gladness for priest and people. Will you 
pardon an old man if he stems the tide of mirth for 
an instant! He could not hope to stem it for long. 
On such an occasion as this it would burst the bar- 
riers, leaving what he would show you once more 
submerged beneath rippling waters and silver-tipped 
waves of laughter. It seems wrong even to think of 
the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the 
hulks of the wrecked. But the bottom always has its 
treasure as well as its tragedy. There are both a 
tragedy and a treasure in the story I will tell you 
to-day.’ ’ 

“You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor 
of Alta! Yes! Then let me tell you a story that 
your generous priestly souls will treasure as it de- 
serves. ’ ’ 

The table was strangely silent. Not one of the 
guests had ever before known the depth of sympathy 
in the old Bishop till now. Every chord in the na- 
ture of each man vibrated to the touch of his words. 

‘ ‘ It was ten years ago, ’ ’ went on the Bishop — 
‘ ‘ ah, how years fly fast to the old ! — a friend of 
college days, a bishop in an Eastern State, wrote me 
a long letter concerning a young convert he had just 
ordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant 
and handsome, the son of wealthy parents, who, 
however, now cast him off, giving him to understand 
that he would receive nothing from them. The 



“ I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had received.” 












% 








THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 59 

young man was filled with zeal, and he begged the 
bishop to give him to some missionary diocese 
wherein he could work in obscurity for the greater 
glory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a 
man that the bishop desired to attach him to his own 
household and was loath to lose him, but the priest 
begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop 
asked me to take him for a few years and give him 
actual contact with the hardships of life in a pioneer 
state. Soon, he thought, the young man would be 
willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in 
other words, wanted to test him. I sadly needed 
priests, so when he came with the oil still wet on his 
hands, I gave him a place — the worst I had — I 
gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what 
it was then. The story of Alta is full of sorrow. 
I told it to him, but he thanked me and went to his 
charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I 
did not see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and 
with his annual report in my hand I asked him how 
he lived on the pittance which he had received. He 
said that it took very little when one was careful and 
that he lived well enough — but his coat was thread- 
bare and his shoes were sadly patched. There was a 
brightness in his eyes too, and a flush on his cheek 
that I did not quite like. I asked him of his work 
and he told me that he was hopeful — told me of the 
little repairs he had made, of a soul won back, but in 
the conversation I actually stole the sad tale of his 
5 


60 TEE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 

poverty from him. Yet he made no complaint and 
went back cheerfully to Alta. 

“The next month he came again, but this time he 
told me of the dire need of aid, not for himself, but 
for his church. The people, he said, were poor 
pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church 
they were losing their grip on religion. The young 
people were falling away very fast. All around 
were well ordered and beautiful sectarian churches. 
He could see the effect, not visible to less interested 
eyes but very plain to his. He feared that another 
generation would be lost and he asked me if there 
was any possibility of securing temporary aid such 
as the sects had for their building work. I had to 
tell him that nothing could be done. I told him of 
the poverty of my own Diocese, and that, while his 
was a poor place, there were others approaching 
it. In my heart I knew there was something sadly 
lacking in our national work for the Church, but I 
could do nothing myself. He wrote to his own State 
for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except 
for the few stipends I could give him and which he 
devoted to his work, it was impossible to do any- 
thing. He was brave and never faltered though the 
eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat 
was worn through. A few days later I received a 
letter from his bishop asking how he did and saying 
that he would appoint him to an excellent parish if 
he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to 


TEE RESURRECTION OF ALTA gl 

Alta with a little note of my own, congratulating 
him on his changed condition. He returned the let- 
ter to me with a few lines saying : 6 I can not go. If 
I desert my people here it would be a sin. There are 
plenty at home for the rich places but you have no 
one to send here. Please ask the bishop to let me 
stay. I think it is God’s will.’ The day I received 
that letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral 
say: ‘How seedy that young Belmond looks! for 
an Eastern man he is positively sloppy in his dress. 
He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of his 
calling. Surely such a man is not calculated to im- 
press himself upon our separated brethren.’ And 
another chimed in : ‘I wonder why he left his own 
diocese V ” 

“I heard no more for two years except for the 
annual report, and now and then a request for a dis- 
pensation. I did hear that he was teaching the few 
children of the parish himself, and every little while 
I saw an article in some of the papers, unsigned but 
suspiciously like his style, and I suspected that he 
was earning a little money with his pen. 

“One winter night, returning alone from a visita- 
tion of Vinta, the fast train was stalled by a blizzard 
at the Alta station. I went out on the platform to 
secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcely 
closed the door when a boy rushed up to me and 
asked if I were a Catholic priest. When I nodded he 
said: ‘We have been trying to get a priest all day, 


02 TEE BESUBBECTION OF ALTA 

but the wires are down in the storm. Father Bel- 
mond is sick and the doctor says he will die. He told 
me to look through every train that came in. He 
was sure I would find some one.’ Beaching at once 
for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the 
Pastor. The home was the lean-to vestry of the old 
log church. In one corner Father Belmond lived; 
another was given over to the vestments and linens. 
Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the 
priest was tossing, moaning and delirious. Only the 
boy had attended him in his sickness until the noon 
of that day when two good old women heard of his 
condition and came. One of them was at his bedside 
when I entered. When she saw my collar she lifted 
her hands in that peculiarly Hibernian gesture that 
means so much, and said : 

“ ‘Sure, God sent you here this night. He has 
been waiting since noon to die. ’ 

“The sick priest opened his eyes that now had 
the brightness of death in them and appeared to look 
through me. He seemed to be very far away. But 
slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back — 
back from the shadows; then at last he spoke: 

“ ‘You, Bishop? Thank God! ’ ” 

“He made his simple confession. I anointed him 
and brought him Viaticum from the tabernacle in 
the church. Then the eyes went wild again, and I 
saw when they opened and looked at me that he had 
already turned around, and was again walking 



i( r 


Then I learned — old priest and bishop as I was — I learned my lesson.” 







































' 

■ 


















































































































TEE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 


63 


through the shadows of the Great Valley that ends 
the Long Road. 

< i Through the night we three, the old woman, the 
boy and myself, watched him and listened to his 
wanderings. Then I learned — old priest and 
bishop as I was — I learned my lesson. The lips 
that never spoke a complaint were moved, but not by 
his will, to go over the story of two terrible years. 
It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. He 
wanted to do so much, but the black discouragement 
of everything slowly killed his hopes. He saw the 
Faith going from his people. He saw that they were 
ceasing to care. The town was then, as it is to-day, 
McDermott’s town, but McDermott had fallen away 
when his riches came, and some terrible event, a 
quarrel with a former priest who had attended Alta 
from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter. He 
practically drove the pastor from his door. He 
closed his factory to the priest’s people and one by 
one they left. Only eighteen families stayed. The 
dying priest counted them over in his dreams, and 
sobbed as he told of the others who had gone. 
Then the bigotry that McDermott’s faith had kept 
concealed broke out under the encouragement of Mc- 
Dermott ’s infidelity. The boys of the town flung 
insults at the priest as he passed. The people gave 
little, and that grudgingly. I could almost feel his 
pain as he told in his delirium how, day after day, he 
had dragged his frail body to church and on the 


64 THE BESUBBECTION OF ALTA 

round of duty. But every now and then, as if the 
words came naturally to bear him up, he would say : 

“ ‘It’s for God’s sake. I am nothing. It will all 
come in His own good time . 9 

4 ‘Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his 
work. He went over his visit to me. How he had 
hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed to the 
ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all 
meant to that sensitive, saintly nature, I would have 
sold my ring and cross to give him what he needed. 
But my words seemed to have broken him and he 
came home to die. The night of his return he spent 
before the altar in his log church, and, Saints of 
Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard his poor, 
dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed 
my head on the coverlet and cried as only a child can 
cry — and I was only a child at that minute in spite 
of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offered a 
supreme sacrifice — his life. I gleaned from his 
prayers that his parents had done him the one favor 
of keeping up his insurance and that he had made it 
over to his church. So he wanted to die at his post 
and piteously begged God to take him. For his 
death he knew would give Alta a church. He seemed 
penetrated with the idea that alive he was useless, 
but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. 
When I heard that same expression used so often 
to-day I lived over again the whole story of that 
night in the little vestry. All this time he had been 


THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 


65 


picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, dur- 
ing the pauses, to be holding the paten as if he 
were gathering up the minute particles from the cor- 
poral. At last his hand found mine. He clung to it, 
and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason 
in them. He smiled, and murmured, 4 It is all right, 
now, Bishop.’ I heard a sob back of me where the 
boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He was 
trying to speak again, and I caught the words, 

‘ God’s sake — I am nothing — His good time.’ 
Then he was still, just as the morning sun broke 
through the windows. 

‘ 4 That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the re- 
surrection of Alta. The old woman told me how it 
happened. He was twenty-five miles away attending 
one of his missions when the blizzard was at its 
height. McDermott fell sick and a telegram was 
sent for the priest — the last message before the 
wires came down. Father Belmond started to drive 
through the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in 
reaching McDermott’s bedside and gave him the last 
Sacraments. He did not break down himself until he 
returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours he 
tossed in fever before they found him. 

‘ ‘ McDermott grew better. He sent for me when 
he heard I was in town. The first question he asked 
was : ‘Is he dead?’ I told McDermott the story just 
as I am telling you. ‘God forgive me,’ said the sick 
man, ‘that priest died for me. When he came here I 


66 TEE RESURRECTION OF ALTA 

ordered him out of my office, yet when they told him 
I was sick he drove through the storm for my sake. 
He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself 
was the noblest soul that Alta ever had. ’ 

“I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere 
bishop was talking to McDermott, and I, His min- 
ister, was silent in His presence. ‘ Bishop, ’ said Mc- 
Dermott, after long thought, ‘ I never really believed 
until now; I’m sorry that it took a man’s life to 
bring back the Faith of my fathers. Send us a 
priest to Alta — one who can do things : one after the 
stamp of the saint in the vestry. I’ll be his friend 
and together we will carry on the work he began. 
I’ll see him through if God spares me.’ 

“Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did. 

“Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not 
re-echoed the praises that have been showered upon 
you as much as perhaps I might have done, because I 
reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of 
them. I believed when I sent you here that you were 
of his stamp. You have done your duty and you 
have done it well. I am not ungrateful and I shall 
not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I 
firmly believe that you, under like circumstances, 
would also have willingly given your life for the 
resurrection of Alta.” 


THE MAN WITH A 
DEAD SOUL 


EAES ago there lived a man whose soul had 



died ; and died as only a soul may die, by the 


man’s own deed. His body lived still for 
debauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, 
but his soul was stifled in a flood of sin. So the man 
lived his life with a dead soul. 

When the soul died the man’s dreams changed. 
The fairy children of his youth came no more to play 
with him and his visions were of lands bare and 
desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; 
and sandy, dry and arid plains instead of bright 
grass and flowers. But out of the rocks shone fiery 
veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that dried 
the plain reflected countless smaller suns of un- 
touched diamonds. Hither in dreams came often the 
man with the dead soul. 

The years passed and the man realized with his 
mortal eyes the full of his dreams and touched mor- 
tal foot to the desert that now was all his own. 
Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body 
cried “ enough.” Then only he left, when his 
strength could dig no more. So he began to live 


( 67 ) 


58 THE man with a dead soul 

more evilly because of his new power of wealth ; and 
his soul was farther than ever from resurrection. 

Now it happened that the man with the dead soul 
soon found that he had become a leper because of his 
sins, and so with all his gains was driven from among 
men. He went back to the desert and watched the 
gold veins in the rocks and the shining of the dia- 
monds, all the time hoping for more strength to dig. 
But while waiting, his musings turned to hateful 
thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all 
good. So he said : “I have been driven from among 
men because they love virtue, henceforth I will hate 
it; because they loved God, henceforth I will love 
only evil ; because they use their belongings to work 
mercy, henceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. 
I may not go to men, so I will go to those who do men 
harm . 7 7 

So the man with the dead soul went to live 
among the beasts. He dwelt for a long time in the 
forests and the most savage of the brutes were his 
friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his 
cave. “How livest thou here?” he asked. 

< ‘ From the off erings of the raven who brings me 
bread and the wild bees who give it sweetness and 
the great beasts who clothe me,” answered the her- 
mit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts 
because they did good and were merciful. 

Out of the forest the North Wind met the man 
and tossed him upon its wings and buffeted him and 


THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL 69 

chilled him to the marrow. In vain he asked for 
mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half 
frozen and sore with blows the man gasped — 

4 4 ’Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou giv- 
est nothing but evil. ,, So he went to dwell in the 
cave of the North Wind and the chill of the pitiless 
cold was good to him on account of his dead soul. 

One day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his 
own desert, and the North Wind went to meet them 
and a mighty battle took place in the air; but the 
North Wind was the victor. White on the ground 
where the chill had flung them lay the clouds in snow 
crystals ; and the man laughed his joy at the sight of 
the ruin — for he knew that the rain-clouds would 
have greened his desert and made it beautiful. But 
he heard the men who cultivated the land on which 
the snow had fallen bless the North Wind that it had 
given their crops protection and promised plenty to 
the fields of wheat. Then the man with the dead soul 
cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the 
ocean. 

The waters bade him stay and daily he saw their 
work of evil. Down in the depths dead men’s bones 
whitened beside the wealth of treasure the ocean 
had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years 
exulting in destruction before he came to the surface 
to watch the storms and laugh at the big waves eat- 
ing the great ships. But there was only a gentle 
breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels 


70 THE man with a dead soul 

laden with treasure and wealth passing from nation 
to nation. He saw the dolphins play over the bosom 
of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride the 
waves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns 
where all day long the sun kept working, drawing 
moisture to the sky from the waters to spread it, 
even over the man ’s barren desert, to make it bloom. 

Cursing again, the man with the dead soul left 
the waters and buried himself beneath the earth, to 
hide in dark caves where neither light nor sound 
could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave 
made it all too bright. By its lantern he saw the 
hidden mysterious forces working. Through tiny 
paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near the 
surface that baby seeds might germinate, live and 
flourish for man’s benefit. He saw great forests 
draw their strength from the very Earth into which 
he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its 
kindly arms and so to change into carbon and remain 
stored away for man’s future comfort. Then the 
man with the dead soul could live in earth no longer, 
and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to 
the waters. 

“I will return to my desert,” he said, “for there 
is more of evil in the gold and diamonds than any- 
where else.” 

So he went back where the gold still shone from 
the veins in the cliffs and the diamonds twinkled in 
the pitiless sun rays. But a throne had been raised 


THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL 71 

on a hillock and a king sat thereon with a crown on 
his head and a trident in his hand. 

4 'Who art thou who invadest my desert ?” asked 
the man. 

"Thy master/ ’ answered the king. 

"And who is my master ?” asked the man. 

"The spirit of evil.” 

"Then would I dwell with thee,” said the man. 

"Thou hast served me well and thou art wel- 
come,” said the king. "Behold!” 

He stretched forth the trident and demons 
peopled the desert. 

"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell 
with them, and without torture, unless thy evil deeds 
be turned to good to torture me. Know that thou 
hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil 
have brought thee my favor. If thou hast been suc- 
cessful in reaping the evil thou has sown, thou shalt 
be my friend. But know that for every good thing 
that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips 
of scorpions.” 

So the man with the dead soul walked through 
rows of demons with whips in their hands; but 
no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown his evil 
well and the king did not frown on him. 

Then one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon 
his shoulders. Pain-racked he looked at the king 
and saw that his face was twisted with agony : then 
he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had 


72 THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL 

been turned to good. And even while he looked the 
whips began to fall mercilessly from all sides and the 
king, frantic with agony, cried out : 

“Tear aside the veil. Let him see.” 

In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man 
with the dead soul saw all the Earth before him — 
and understood. A generation had passed since he 
had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his 
wealth. The finger of God had touched it and behold 
good had sprung from it everywhere. It was build- 
ing temples to the mighty God where the poor could 
worship ; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever 
he looked, dazzling his vision and blinding him with 
its light. Wherever the Finger of God glided the 
good came forth; the hungry were nourished, the 
naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth 
preached. Before him was the good growing from 
his impotent evil every moment and multiplying as 
it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the 
tortured demons and the impatient hisses of the 
whips that hungered for his back. 

Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ring- 
ing on the air made him open them again. The voice 
was strangely like his own, yet purified and sweet 
with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the 
“Miserere,” and the words beat him backward to 
the demons as they arose. 

He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man 
clad in a brown habit of penance with the cord of 


THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL 


73 


purity girt about him. His eyes looked once into the 
eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the 
eyes of the one to whom he had left his legacy of 
hate and wealth and evil — his own and his only son. 

Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke 
from his dream, and behold, he was lying in the 
desert where the gold tempted him from out of the 
great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. 
He looked at them not at all, but straightway he 
went to where good men sang the “Miserere” and 
were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to 
pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new 
resurrection. 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
OF A DOLLAR 

y 

I WAS born in a beautiful city on the banks of a 
charming river, the capital of a great nation. 
Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood, 
though it is said that I had a formative period in the 
care of artists whose brains conceived the beauty of 
my face and whose hands realized the glory of their 
dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of 
paper with line and color upon it. They gave me 
nothing else, and I really began to live only when 
some one representing the Great Nation stamped a 
seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt 
a throb of being. I lived, and the joy of it went 
rioting through me. 

I remember that at first I was confined in a pri- 
son, bound with others by an elastic band which I 
longed to break that I might escape to the welcoming 
hands of men who looked longingly at me through 
the bars. But soon one secured me and I went out 
into a great, wide and very beautiful world. 

Of the first months of my life I can remember 
but very little, only that I was feverishly happy in 
seeing, and particularly in doing. I was petted and 
admired and sought after. I went everywhere and 

( 74 ) 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR 


75 


did everything. So great was my popularity that 
some even bartered their peace of mind to obtain 
me, and others, forced to see me go, shed tears at the 
parting. Some, unable to have me go to them other- 
wise, actually stole me. But all the time I cared 
nothing, for I was living and doing — making men 
smile and laugh when I was with them and weep 
when I went away. It was all the same to me 
whether they laughed or cried. I only loved the 
power that was in me to make them do it and I 
believed that the power was without limit. 

I was not yet a year old when I began to lose my 
beauty. I noticed it first when I fell into the hands 
of a man with long hair and pointed heard, who 
frowned at me and said: “You poor, faded, dirty 
thing, to think that I made you!” But I did not 
care. He had not made me. It was the Great 
Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make 
even him long for me. So I was happy. 

I was one year and a half old when I formed my 
first great partnership with others of my kind, and 
it came about like this : I had been in the possession 
of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in 
a most unpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard 
a sharp voice ask for me — nay, demand me, and 
couple the demand with a threat that my guardian 
should lose her home were the demand refused. I 
was given over, I hoped, to better quarters, but in 

this I was sadly disappointed, for my new owner 
6 


76 THE autobiography of a dollar 

confined me in a strong but ill-favored box where 
thousands like myself were growing mouldy and 
wrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes 
we were released at night to be carefully counted by 
candle-light, but that was all. Thus we who were 
imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even 
then we were not strong enough to free ourselves. 
One night the box was opened with a snap and I saw 
the thin, pale face of my master looking down at us. 
He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions 
and placed us outside the box. 

“There’s the money,” he said, “as I told you. 
It’s all yours. Are you satisfied now?” I looked 
across the table at a young girl with a white, set face 
that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer. 

“If you want it why don’t you take it?” he 
snarled at her. “I can tell you again that there is 
nothing else for you.” 

The girl had something in her hand that I saw. 
I see more than most men. The thing she had made 
a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. lie fell across 
the table and something red and warm went all over 
me. I began to be unhappy, for I thought I saw 
that there was something in the world that could not 
be bought. For him I cared nothing. 

It was strange that after my transfers I was at 
last used to pay the judge who tried the girl. I was 
in the judge’s pocket when he sentenced her to death. 
He said : ‘ ‘ May the Lord have mercy on your soul. ’ ’ 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR 77 

But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most 
men, that he didn’t believe in the Lord or in souls. 

He left the court to spend me at a , but I think 

that I will not mention that shameful change. There 
was nothing strange about my falling into the hang- 
man as part of his pay. I had been in worse hands 
in the interim. 

I saw her die. Not a word did she say about the 
man she killed, though it might have saved her to tell 
of the mock marriage and the other things I knew 
she could reveal. She thought it better to die, I 
suppose, than he shamed. So she died — unbought. 
It made me still more unhappy to think of it at all. 
The dark stain never left me, but I cared nothing for 
that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted 
me, was starving for what I could buy, hut spurned 
me and died rather than take me. There was some- 
thing that had more power than I possessed. 

I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort 
was the greatest I had yet made — my partnership 
with millions of others. I traveled long distances 
over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and 
so produced others like myself. I built railroads, 
skyscrapers, steamships and great public works. I 
disguised myself, in order to enhance my power, 
under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, 
checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew 
myself when I returned to the bill with the red stain 
upon it. My partners were nearly all with us one 


78 THE autobiography of a dollar 

day when the master came in with a man and pointed 
ns out to him. The man shook his head. It was a 
great, massive head, good to look at. My master 
talked a long time with him but he never changed. 
Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He 
threw us down, kicked us, and went out without a 
look back. I was more unhappy than ever. He had 
spurned me, though I knew by his look that he 
wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at 
all. There was another thing I could not buy. 

But a curse came in good earnest two days later. 
The terror of that has never left me. I saw a man 
die who loved me better than his honor or his God. 
He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from 
whom he had stolen me. The priest who stood by his 
bed implored him. He refused and the priest turned 
from him without saying the words of absolution. 
When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, 
and croaked his curses, but the death rattle kept 
choking them back into him, only to have him vomit 
them into our faces again and again till he died. 
The priest came back and looked at him. 

“Poor fool !” he said to him, but to me and my 
companions he said: “YOU sent him to Hell.” 

Ah ! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced 
in it I was not glad enough. He could have con- 
quered had he only willed it. I knew he was my mas- 
ter long before I mastered him. 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR 79 

His dissipated and drunken children fought for 
us beside his very bed. I was wrenched from one 
hand to the other, falling upon the dirty floor to be 
trampled on again and again. When the fight ended 
I was torn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my 
next master sent me back to the great capital to be 
changed ; to have the artists work again on me and 
restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist 
could give me new life. 

Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a 
good man. I knew he was good when I heard him 
speak to me and to those who were with me. “God 
has blessed me/’ lie said, “with riches and knowl- 
edge and strength, but I am only His steward. This 
money like all the rest shall be spent in His service.” 
Then we were sent out, thousands of us, returning 
again and again, splitting into great and small par- 
ties, but all coming and going hither and thither on 
errands of mercy. 

Now I felt my love of doing return. Never did I 
now see a tear that I did not dry. Never did I hear 
a sigh that I did not change to a laugh; never a 
wound that I did not heal ; never a pain that I did 
not soothe ; nor a care I did not lighten. Where the 
sick were found, I visited them; where the poor 
were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains and 
in the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the 
Chalice of Salvation. To the dying I sped the Min- 
ister of Pardon. Into the darkness and the shadow 


80 TEE AUTOBIOGBAPEY OF A VOLLAB 

of death I sent the Light of love and hope and 
truth, till, rich in the deeds of mercy I did in my 
master’s name, I felt the call to another deathbed — 
his own. I saw my companions flying from the 
bounds of the great earth to answer the call. They 
knew he needed them now with the rich interest of 
good deeds they had won for him. Fast they came 
and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. 
The enemy who hated him pointed to them in deri- 
sion. 4 ‘ Gold buys hell, not heaven , 9 9 he laughed, but 
we stood around the bed and the enemy could not 
pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his 
command, began to pray and the prayer was like 
sweetest music echoing against the very vault of 
heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones of 
harps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and 
louder till all seemed changed to a thousand organs, 
with every stop attuned to the praying. They were 
the voices of the children from parts and regions 
where we had lifted the Cross. One by one they 
joined the mighty music till on the wings of the 
melody the master was borne aloft, higher and 
higher as new voices coming added of their strength. 
I watched till he was far above and still rising to 
heights beyond the ken of dreams. 

An Angel touched me. 

“Be thou clean,” he said, “and go, I charge thee, 
to thy work. Thy master is not dead, but only begins 
his joy. While time is, thou shalt work for him and 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR 


81 


thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thou 
shalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, 
the children may gather and the song find new 
strength and new volume to lift him nearer and 
nearer the Throne.’ ’ 

So I am happy that I have learned my real 
power ; that I can do what alone is worth doing — 
for His sake. 



LE BRAILLARD DE LA 
MAGDELE1NE* 


HIS is the story that the old sailor from 



Tadousac told me when the waves were leap- 


ing, snapping, and frothing at us from the St. 
Lawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the 
anger of the waters rose the wail of the Braillard de 
la Magdeleine. 

“You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. 
I think of my own baby when I hear him, always the 
same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby ! 

“Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, 
but the storm darkens everything, yonder toward 
Gaspe, where the little mother lived — pauvre mere. 
She was only a child, innocent and good and happy, 
when he came — the great lord, the Grand Seigneur, 
from France — came with the Commandant to Que- 
bec and then to Tadousac. 

“She loved him, loved him and forgot — forgot 
her father and mother — forgot the good name they 
gave her — forgot the innocence that made her beau- 
tiful — forgot the pure Mother and the good God, 


♦Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a sound like wailing whenever 
there is a great storm. The people call it Le Braillard de la Magdeleine and countless 
tales are told concerning it. 


( 82 ) 


LE BEA 1 LLABD BE LA MAGBELEINE 83 

for him and his love. She went to Quebec with him, 
but the Cure had not blessed them in the church. 

‘ 4 Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries 
out there in the storm. The Grand Seigneur killed 
the little baby, killed it to save her from disgrace, 
killed it without baptism, and it cries and wails out 
there, pauvre enfant. 

“The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. 
She has been here for more than two hundred years 
listening to her baby cry. Poor mother. The baby 
calls her and she wanders through the storm to find 
him. But she never sees, only hears him cry for her 
— and God. Till the great Day of Judgment will the 
baby cry, and she — pauvre mere — will pay the 
price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart 
and hungry mother arms, that will not be filled. You 
hear the soft wind from the shore battle with the 
great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she, pauvre 
mere — perhaps. 

“The Grand Seigneur 9 He never comes, for he 
died unrepentant and unpardoned. The lost do not 
return to Earth and Hope. He never comes. Only 
the mother comes — the mother who weeps and 
seeks, and hears the baby cry.” 


THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS 

F ROM Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint 
John the rock-bound Saguenay rolls through 
a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty, 
and alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore 
tales. Ghosts of the past people its shores, phan- 
tom canoes float down the river of mystery; and 
disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the 
dreamer’s call; traders, trappers, soldiers, women 
strong in love and valor, heroes in the long ago, and 
saintly missionaries offering up mortal life that 
savages may know the Christian’s God. 

Beauty, mysticism and music — music in all 
things, from the silver flow of the river to the soft 
notes of the native’s tongue, and dominating all, 
simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted pa- 
triotism. 

Such was French Canada, the adopted country 
of Deschamps the trapper, a native of old France, 
who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec was 
yet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or 
hardship, gradually grew to be a grand monsieur in 
the estimation of the people about him. He loved 
his country well and, when war came, sent forth 
three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. 
Many were the tears the patriot shed, because age 

( 84 ) 


THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS 


85 


forbade the privilege of shouldering musket and 
marching himself. 

Weary months dragged by before tidings came. 
Quebec had fallen. The gallant Montcalm had 
passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero’s 
rest, and two of the trapper’s sons lay dead on the 
Plains of Abraham. They had died bravely, as Des- 
champs hoped they would, with their faces to the 
foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old 
father at Tadousac. 

And Pascal, the best beloved? 

Pascal was — a traitor! 

The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor ! 
Wife, daughter and gallant sons had been riven 
from him by death and the Christian’s hope light- 
ened the mourner’s desolation. But disgrace! 
Neither earth nor heaven held consolation for such 
wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on his woe; 
alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his 
despair in the words : ‘ ‘ France! Pascal! Traitor!” 

Years passed and the trapper lived on, a senile 
wreck, ever brooding on defeat, then breaking into 
fierce invective. Misery had isolated him from his 
kind; the grand monsieur was the recluse of Ta- 
dousac. One day he disappeared from his lonely 
cabin and no one knew whither he had gone. 

Treason had purchased prosperity for the recre- 
ant son. Wealth and honors were his and an Eng- 
lish wife, a haughty woman of half-noble family, 


86 


THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS 


who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous 
deed, kindred and race were all forgotten, and when 
the joy-bells rang for the birth of an heir there was 
revel in the magnificent mansion of Pascal Des- 
champs. 

“ Summon our friends,” said the happy father. 
“A son to the house of Deschamps! Let his bap- 
tism be celebrated as becomes the heir of wealth, 
power and position.’ ’ 

So heralds went forth from town to town, mak- 
ing known the tidings, but bore no message to the 
lonely grandsire in Tadousac. 

4 4 The curse is lifted!” said the pious peasants, 
mindful of Pascal’s treason. ‘ ‘ A child at last ! The 
good God has forgiven him.” 

From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, 
English who despised his treachery, French who 
hated his name, but courtiers all; and with them 
came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn 
and roughly clad, who lurked in the shadows of the 
great hall, and whispered ever : ‘ ‘ France ! Pascal ! 
Traitor !” 

Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair 
with the patrician beauty of his English mother, 
strong of limb as befitted the trapper’s descendant. 
Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his 
nurse’s arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor. 

“A sturdy fellow, my friends,” said his laughing 
sponsor. “An English Deschamps.” 


TEE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS 


87 


“An English Deschamps ! ’ ’ cried the English 
guests, pleased with the conceit. “Long may his 
line endure.” 

“A traitor Deschamps !” said a voice instinct 
with wrath. “Unhappy man, your taint is in him!” 

The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the 
shadows came the unbidden guest and stood among 
them, his mien majestic with the dignity of sorrow. 
Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen 
lips to speak the word : 4 ‘ Father. ’ ’ 

“Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old 
and broken with the burden of your disgrace, but 
loyal still to God and country. I have guarded those 
great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I 
would have transmitted them to my posterity, and 
linked the name of Deschamps forever with pa- 
triotism and Faith. But your treachery has de- 
stroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your 
brothers, whose names are written on the roll of 
martyrs to their Faith and country. Ah, Pascal, how 
I loved you! And your son! An English Des- 
champs you say! A son born to perpetuate his 
father’s degradation! No, Pascal, I shall save my 
honor ! Your traitor blood shall never taint poster- 
ity. You may live your life of misery, but you shall 
live it alone.” 

And snatching the child from its nurse’s arms 
the old trapper passed from the house and had 
reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers were 


gg TEE LEGEND OF DESCEAMPS 

roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The 
old trapper had driven holes through the sides of 
every one but his own. 

With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the 
St. Lawrence, through the rocky entrance to the 
Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a harbor 
was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the mad- 
man landed, climbed to the summit of the rock, and 
laying down the boy, kindled a fire of driftwood. 

“I may see his face,” he muttered. “The last of 
my line! The English cross shows! The strain 
shows! I must wash it out! Hush, my little one, 
thy grandfather guards thee ; soon shalt thou sleep 
in my arms — arms that cradled thy father, and 
shall hold thee forever. I, who was ever gentle, who 
spared the birds and beasts, and sorrowed with the 
trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby — will 
save thee from thy father. Here where the wind 
speaks of freedom ; here where the river even in its 
anger, as to-night, whispers peace ; here where Des- 
champs worked and hoped; here where Deschamps 
sorrowed and mourned; here, little one, shall we 
rest together. Child, for you and me life means dis- 
grace ; the better part is death and freedom. ’ ’ 

A leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, 
fluttering white like angels’ wings, dipped to the 
surface and disappeared. The race of Deschamps 
was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its 
pall, the storm its requiem. 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR 
NOTE 

y 

T HE three men who sat together around the 
little library table of the Rectory felt the 
unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead 
silence. The big burly one, with his feet planted 
straight on the carpet, passed his tongue over his 
lips and nervously folded and opened the paper in 
his hands. The tall young chap with creased trou- 
sers kept crossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither 
of them looked at the young priest, who ten minutes 
before had welcomed them with a merry laugh and 
had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of 
his little bookish den, as cordially as if they were 
the best friends he had in the world. Now the young 
priest looked old and the half-minute had done it. 
He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor 
and architect arrived ; but he was a care-filled man 
now, as he sat and nervously passed a handkerchief 
over his forehead, to find it wet, though the room 
was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting 
an actual physical barrier when he spoke to the big 
man. 

“I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray” (it had been 
“John” ten minutes before), “I do not quite see,” 


( 89 ) 


90 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


he repeated anxiously, ‘ ‘ how I can owe you so much. 
You know our contract was plain, and the bid that I 
accepted from you was six thousand eight hundred 
dollars . 7 7 

“Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur , 77 answered 
McMurray with shifting embarrassment, “but you 
know these other things were extras, sur . 7 7 

“But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMur- 
ray , 77 urged the priest. 

“Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the 
foundations was sandy, sur, and that we had to go 
down deeper than the specifications called fur. It 
cost in labor, sur , 7 7 — McMurray did not seem to be 
enjoying his explanation — “fur diggin 7 and layin 7 
the stone. Then you know, sur, it takes more ma- 
terial to do it, sur. You said, yes — to go ahead, 
sur . 7 7 

“But you did not tell me it would cost more , 77 
urged the priest. 

“No, sur; no, sur; I didn’t, sur; but a child 
would know that. Now look here at the plans . 77 

“Just a minute, Mr. McMurray , 77 broke in the 
architect, suavely. “Let me explain. You see, 
Father, I was your representative both as architect 
and superintendent of the building. I know that 
McMurray 7 s bill of extras is right. I passed on them 
and everything he did was necessary. There are 
extras, you know, on every building . 77 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


91 


“But,” said the priest, “I told you I had only 
eight thousand dollars, and that the furnishings 
would take all over the amount called for by the con- 
tract. You can not expect to get blood out of a 
stone. Here now you say I must pay a thousand 
dollars more; but where can I get the money f” 

‘ ‘ Well, Father,” said the architect, “I don’t 
think you will have to worry much about that. You 
priests always manage somehow, and you got off 
cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand 
dollars, if it’s worth a cent; and McMurray did you 
a clean, nice job. Now one thousand dollars won’t 
hurt you ; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will 
get the money in a year or so. ’ ’ 

“It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don’t 
see how I can do anything else, ’ ’ answered the priest. 
“This thing has sort of stunned me. Give me one 
month and let me do my best. I wish I had never 
started that building at all. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sur; yes, sur,” said McMurray quickly. 
“You can have a month, sur. I am not a hard man, 
sur; but I’ve got to pay off me workers, you know. 
But take the month, sur, take it — take it. ’ ’ 
McMurray looked longingly at the door. 

All three had arisen; but the priest’s step had 
lost its spring as he escorted his visitors out. 

Both of them were silent for the distance of a 
block away from the Rectory, and then McMurray 
said : 


7 


92 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


“Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like .” 

“ I do too , 9 9 broke in the architect. ‘ ‘ I know what 
you were going to say. He took it pretty hard.” 

Not another word was spoken by either of them 
until the hotel was reached, and they had drowned 
the recollection of the young face, with the look of 
age upon it, in four drinks at the bar. 

When the priest, with a slight look of relief, 
closed the door upon his visitors and bolted it after 
them, he had perhaps seen a little humor in the 
situation; but the bolting of the door was the only 
sign of it. His face was still grave when he stood, 
silent and stunned, staring at the bill on the table. 

“The good Lord help me,” he prayed. “One 
thousand dollars and the Bishop coming in two 
weeks ! What can I say to him ! What can I do ? ” 

He pulled out a well thumbed letter from his 
pocket and read it to himself, though he knew every 
word by heart. 

“Dear Father Ryan, — I am pleased at your 
success, especially that you built the church, as 
I told you to, without debt. The congregation is 
too poor for any such burden. I will be there for the 
dedication on the 26th. 

“And by the way. You may get ready for that 
change I spoke of. I am as good as my word, and 
will not delay about promoting you. The parish of 
Lansville is vacant. In a month you may consider 
yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I will look 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


93 


around to select one of the young men to take your 
place and begin the work of building a house. God 
bless you. 

“Sincerely yours in Christ, 

Thomas, Bishop of Tolma. 

“All these years,* * whispered the young priest, 
“all these years, I have waited for that place. I 
meant to have a home and mother with me, and at 
least enough to live on after my ten years of sacri- 
fice ; but one thousand dollars spoils it all. How can 
I raise it! I can not do it before the 26th and the 
Bishop will ask for my report. How can I tell him 
after that letter! ” 

He dropped the letter over the contractor’s bill 
and sat down, with discouragement written on every 
line of his face. He was trying to think out the 
hardest problem of his life. 

The town wherein Father Kyan had built his 
church had been for years on the down-grade, so far 
as religion was concerned. There were in it forty 
indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. 
They had just enough religion left in them to desire 
a little more, and they had a certain pride left, too, 
in their Faith. 

Father Kyan builded on that pride. It was a long 
and arduous work he had faced. But after ten years 
he succeeded in erecting the little church. His warn- 
ings to the architect had gone without heed ; and he 


94 THE thousand dollar note 

found himself plunged into what was for him an 
enormous debt, just at the time when promotion was 
assured. 

All night long his problem was before him, and in 
the morning it was prompt to rise up and confront 
him. 

After breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered 
it himself, to find two visitors on the steps. One was 
a very venerable looking old priest, who had a kindly 
way about him and who laid his grip very tenderly 
on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. 
His companion looked vastly different as he flung a 
little satchel into the corner, and with a voice as big 
and hearty as his body informed his host that both 
had come to stay over Sunday. 

" Barry and I have been off for two weeks and 
we got tired of it,” said Father Fanning, the big 
man. " First vacation in ten years for both of us, 
but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over 
his school, and I got worrying over Barry, so there 
you are.” 

"But why didn’t both of you go homer’ asked 
Father Ryan. 

"Home! confound it, that’s the trouble. I would 
give anything to go on the other ten miles and get 
off the train at my little burg, and so would Barry, 
for that matter; but we were both warned to stay 
away until Wednesday — reception and all that sort 
of thing. So now we are going to stay here.” 


THE THOUSAND DOLL AN NOTE 


95 


4 ‘That's all right," said Father Ryan. “I am 
glad to have you, but this is Saturday and to-morrow 
is Sunday, and " 

“Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I sim- 
ply won't preach. It is no use asking me. I am on 
a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He won't talk, 
so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man 
to work on his vacation, would you?" 

“Well, if you won’t, you won't," replied Father 
Ryan, “but you will say the late Mass, anyhow? 
You'll have to do something for your board." 

“All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass 
in private, and you say the first, yourself. Then you 
can preach as short and as well as you can, which is 
not saying much for you." 

“Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sun- 
day," interrupted Father Ryan, “I won’t lack for a 
subject." 

Father Ryan had a great weakness for the Semi- 
nary, which was entitled to an annual collection in 
the entire Diocese. He had studied there for six 
years and, since his ordination, not one of his old 
professors had been changed. Then he knew his 
obligations to the Seminary; he was one of those 
who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning 
was obliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to 
change his mind regarding his friend's ability to 
preach well. Father Ryan's discourse was an ap- 
peal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater. 


96 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAB NOTE 


He closed it very effectively: “I owe the Semi- 
nary, my dear friends,” he said, “ about all that I 
have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I may 
ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obliga- 
tion that is upon me. As for you, and the other Cath- 
olics of this Diocese, you owe the Seminary for nine- 
tenths of the priests who have been successfully 
carrying on God’s work in your midst. The collec- 
tion to-day is for that Seminary. In other words, it 
is for the purpose of helping to train priests who 
shall take our places when we are gone. On the 
Seminary depends the future of the Church amongst 
you: therefore, the future of religion in your fami- 
lies. Looking at this thing in a selfish way, for the 
present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving 
your little offering to this collection ; but if you are 
thinking of your children and your children’s chil- 
dren, and the future of religion, not only in this 
community but all over our State, and even in the 
Nation, you will be generous — even lavish, in your 
gifts. This is a poor little parish. We have 
struggled hard, God knows, to build our church, and 
we need every dollar we can scrape together ; but I 
would rather be in need myself than refuse this 
appeal. I am entitled by the laws of the Diocese to 
take out of the collection the average amount of the 
Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took 
a cent, so I don’t intend to. Every dollar, every 
penny that you put into this collection shall be sent 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAB NOTE 97 

to the Bishop for the Seminary ; to help him educate 
worthy priests for our Diocese.’ ’ 

After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with 
the preacher. 

4 4 1 feel ashamed of myself, Ryan, ’ ’ he said, 4 4 that 
I never looked at things in such a light before. That 
was a great appeal you made. My collection is prob- 
ably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home 
to take it up ; and I tell you I am going to use every 
bit of that sermon that I can remember . 9 ’ 

Father Ryan had had little time to think over his 
troubles since his two friends arrived; but, some- 
how, they seemed to worry him now that the sermon 
was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was 
weighing upon him even when he went to the door of 
the church to meet some of the people. 

A stranger brushed past him — a big, bluff, 
hearty looking man, all bone and muscle, roughly 
dressed and covered with mud. There was a two- 
horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger 
started for it ; but turned back on seeing the priest. 

44 I am a stranger here, Father,” he said. 44 I 
have just come down from the mountains, where I 
have been prospecting. I have to drive over to 
Caanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no 
trains here on Sunday. I hadn’t been to Mass for 
three months, for we have no place to go out there 
where I was ; so it was a great consolation for me to 
drop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it 


TEE THOUSAND DOLLAB NOTE 


was a good sermon. That was a great appeal you 
made.” 

Father Ryan could only murmur, “ Thank you. 
You are not staying very long with us?” 

“No, I can’t stay, Father. I have to get to New 
York and report on what I found. I have about 
fourteen miles of mud before me now, and have 
driven twenty miles this morning. I don’t belong 
around here at all. I live in New York; but I may 
be here a good deal later, and you are the nearest 
priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection. ’ ’ 

The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan’s 
hand. By this time they both had reached the livery 
rig. A quick “Good-bye” from the visitor, and a 
“God bless you” from Father Ryan, ended the con- 
versa tion. 

The priest thrust the note into his pocket and 
returned to the house. When he entered the dining- 
room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast at the 
table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a 
book, which he found difficulty in reading, on account 
of the enthusiastic comments of his friend on Father 
Ryan’s sermon. 

“We were talking about you, Ryan,” he said. 
“And there is no need of telling you what we had to 
say about you ; but there is one thing I would like to 
ask. What ’s wrong with you since we came ? ’ ’ 

“Why, nothing,” said Father Ryan. “Haven’t 
I treated you better than you deserve?” 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


99 


“That is all right, that is all right,’ ’ interrupted 
his big neighbor, “but there is something wrong. 
You were worried at first. Then you dropped it, 
but you started to worry again just as soon as you 
came out of the sanctuary. You were at it when we 
came in and you are at it now. Come, Ryan, let us 
know what it is. If it is money, well — ” 

Father Barry looked up quickly from his book 
and said: “Surely, it is not the new church, is it?” 

The young pastor sat down in a chair at the table 
and looked at his friends, before he spoke. “Well, 
I never could keep a secret,” he said. “Therefore, 
I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor of 
anybody, and must always be seeking a counselor 
for myself.” 

“I always hate a man who can keep a secret,” 
said Father Fanning. “I always believe that the 
fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you have 
to watch. You never know what he is thinking 
about, so nobody ever is sure of him. Don’t be 
ashamed now of not being able to keep a secret, and 
don’t worry yourself by keeping this one. Out 
with it.” 

“Well, it is about the church,” said Father Ryan. 

And he told his story. 

“Well, of all the strange characters I ever met,” 
said Father Fanning, “you certainly are the worst, 
Ryan. Here you are in a box about that thousand 


100 TEE thousand dollae note 

dollars and yet this morning yon gave away yonr 
own share of the collection, besides booming the 
Seminary. Why man, the Seminary ought not ask 
anything from yon, in your present condition. But 
there is no use trying to pound sense into you. 
What are you going to do about this? It is too much 
money for Barry and myself to take care of. Bless 
your heart, I don’t think he has fifty dollars to his 
name and I wouldn ’t like to tell you the state of my 
finances. We have to think out some way. Maybe 
Barry can see the Bishop.” 

4 4 Well, we’ll have to stop thinking about it,” said 
Father Ryan. “I might just as well settle down 
where I am. I certainly will not get very much of a 
promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big 
man, covered with mud, in the church?” 

“No,” said Father Fanning, “I did not notice 
him. Who was he? What about him?” 

“He was a stranger,” said Father Ryan, “and 
was very pleasant. He is a prospector from New 
York. He has been up in the mountains and away 
from church for the last three months. He must 
have found something up there, because he is going 
on to New York to meet his backers; at least, that 
is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over 
to Caanan to-day to catch the fast train.” 

“I wonder if he put anything in the collection?” 
said Father Fanning. 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 101 

“No, he did not,” answered the pastor, “but he 
gave it to me afterward and told me to put it in. By 
the way, here it is. ’ ’ 

He pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it 
flat on the table. The three men gasped for breath. 
It was a thousand dollars. 

Father Fanning was the first to find words, 
“Great Scott, Ryan,” he said, “you ought to go out 
and thank God on your knees before the altar. Here 
is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be a 
millionaire.” 

Father Ryan’s face was all smiles. “Yes,” he 
said, “it is the end of my trouble. I never dreamed 
it would come to an end so easily. Thanks be to God 
for it.” 

The little old priest with the book in front of him 
seemed to have no comment to make. He let his two 
friends ramble on, both overjoyed at the good for- 
tune that had extricated Father Ryan from his di- 
lemma. But he was not reading. He was thinking. 
By and by he spoke. 

“What did you say you preached on to-day, 
Father Ryan?” 

“Why,” broke in Fanning, “he preached on the 
Seminary. Didn’t I tell you? And a good ser- 
mon — ” 

“Yes, I preached on the Seminary,” said Father 
Ryan. 


102 TEE thousand dollar note 

“But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you 
pledged every dollar that came into the collection to 
the Seminary.” 

“Why, surely,” said Father Byan, “but this did 
not come in through the collection. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” persisted Father Barry, “but did you 
not say that the strange man told you to put it into 
the collection ? ’ ’ 

“Why — yes — yes, he did say something like 
that.” 

“Well, then,” urged Father Barry, “is it not a 
question to be debated as to whether or not you can 
do anything else with the money?” 

“Oh, confound it all, Barry,” cried Father Fan- 
ning. “You are a rigorist. You don’t understand 
this case. Now there’s no use bringing your old 
syllogisms into this business. This man is in a 
hole. He has got to get out of it. What difference 
is it if I put my money in one pocket or in the other 
pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. The 
thousand dollar note was given to the Church, and 
the most necessary thing now is to pay the debt on 
that part of it that’s here. Why the Seminary 
doesn’t need it. The old Procurator would drop 
dead if he got a thousand dollars from this parish.” 

“Well, so far as I can see,” said Father Barry, 
“what you say does not change matters any. Father 
Byan promised every dollar — and every cent for 
that matter — in that collection to the Seminary. 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


103 


This money forms part of the collection. I know 
perfectly well that most men would argue as you do, 
but this is a case of conscience. The money was 
given for a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if 
Father Ryan uses it for any other purpose than the 
one for which it was given, he simply will have to 
make restitution later on to the Seminary. 

‘ ‘ That ’s an awful way of looking at things, ’ ’ said 
Father Fanning. “ Confound it, I am glad I don’t 
have to go to you for direction. Why, its getting 
worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this 
money would be only too glad to have it go to pay off 
the debt. What does he know about the Seminary? 
He was attending the little church out here, and 
whatever good he got from his visit came through 
Father Ryan and his people. He is under obligation 
to them first. Can’t you see that it does not make 
any difference, after all. It is the same thing.” 

“No, it is not the same thing,” said Father 
Barry. “Perhaps we are too much tempted to be- 
lieve that gifts of this kind might be interchange- 
able. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at 
home, and that means that sometimes we uncon- 
sciously are full of zeal for our own glory. Look it 
up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a kill- 
joy; but we would not wish our friend here to act 
first and do a lot of sorrowful thinking afterward.” 

It was Wednesday morning when the two visi- 
tors left, and the discussions only ended when the 


104 TEE thousand dollar note 

door closed upon them. There was not a theological 
book in Father Ryan’s library left unconsulted. 

When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in 
hand, he said: “Well, I guess we have come to no 
conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, your- 
self, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing 
I can testify to, besides the stubbornness of my 
venerable friend here, and that is that I have learned 
more theology out of this three-day discussion than 
I learned in three years previously. There is 
nothing like a fight to keep a fellow in training.” 

His friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to 
his desk and wrote this letter to his Bishop : 

Your Lordship — I am sending herewith enclosed 
my Seminary collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. 
You may be surprised at the first figure ; but there 
was a thousand dollar note handed to me for that 
particular collection. I congratulate the Seminary 
on getting it. 

“The church is ready for dedication as your 
Lordship arranged. 

“Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the 
train.” 

Then Father Ryan went to bed. He did not ex- 
pect to sleep very much that night ; but in spite of 
his worry, and to his own great surprise, he had the 
most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priest- 
hood. 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 


105 


The church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe 
of face, abrupt in manner, but if the truth were 
known, kindly at heart, finished his work before he 
asked to see the books of the parish. 

Father Ryan was alone with his Lordship when 
the time for that ordeal came. He handed the books 
to the Bishop and laid a financial statement before 
him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then 
read it through. The frown was still on his face as 
he looked up at the young priest before him. 

“This looks as if you had been practicing a little 
deceit upon me, Father Ryan, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ You wrote 
me that the church was finished without debt.” 

“I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the 
letter. I had the money on hand to pay the exact 
amount of the contract. The architect and the 
builder came to me later and informed me that there 
had been extras, of which I knew nothing, amounting 
to one thousand dollars. I am one thousand dollars 
behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not my 
fault, except that perhaps I should have known more 
about the tactics of the men I was dealing with. I 
will have to raise the money some way; and, of 
course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me to 
Lansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I 
could. I will know more about building next time. ’ ’ 
The Bishop had no word to say. Though the 
frown appeared pretty well fixed upon his face, it 
did not seem quite natural. There was a twinkle in 


106 TEE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 

his eye that only an expert on bishops could per- 
ceive. 

“But you sent me one thousand dollars more 
than I could have expected only this week, for the 
Seminary , 9 9 he said. That surely indicates that you 
have some people here who might help you out of 
your dilemma.” 

4 ‘ I am sorry, your Lordship , 9 9 said Father Ryan, 
“but it does not indicate that at all. I have no rich 
people. All of my people have done the best they 
could for the new church. I will have to give them a 
rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The 
man who gave the thousand dollar bill was a stran- 
ger — a miner. I do not know him at all. He did not 
even give his name, but said the money was for the 
collection. I could not find any authority for keep- 
ing it for the church here, though, to be candid, I 
wanted to do it. That is all.” 

The Bishop still kept his eye on him. ‘ ‘ Of course 
you know that your appointment to Lansville was 
conditional.” 

“I understand that, your Lordship,” said Father 
Ryan. “You have no obligation to me at all in that 
regard . 9 9 

“Will you kindly step to the door and ask my 
Chancellor to come in?” 

When the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to 
him: “Have you the letter I received from Mr. 
Wilcox?” 


THE THOUSAND DOLLAB NOTE 107 

The Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, 
who unfolded it and, taking another glance at the 
dejected young pastor, read it to him. It was very 
much to the point. 

“Deak Bishop, — You may or may not know me, 
but I knew you when you were pastor of St. Alexis 
in my native town. The fact is, you baptized me. 
I would not even have known where you were, had it 
not been for a mistake I made this morning. I came 
down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ash- 
ford. When I was going away I gave the young 
priest a thousand dollar note. If you recognize my 
name, you will understand that it was not too much 
for me to give, for though I am a stingy sort of fel- 
low, the Lord has blessed me with considerable 
wealth. I remember saying to the young priest that 
I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I 
remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it 
out that he would be sending the collection to you. 

4 4 Now, I don’t like to disappoint you, dear 
Bishop, hut I did not intend that money to go to the 
Seminary, hut to the pastor for the little parish. 
Later on, when developments start in the mountains, 
and they will start when I get back to New York, I 
may need that young priest to come up and take care 
of my men ; so I want the money to go to his church, 
which, from what my driver told me coming over, 

needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, 
8 


108 THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE 

for I expect to be around your section of the country 
a great deal in the future. 

‘ ‘ Respectfully yours, 

“Paul Wilcox.” 

Through tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all 
the sternness go out of the Bishop’s face. 

“Mr. Wilcox,” said his Lordship, “is a mil- 
lionaire many times over. He is one of the largest 
mine operators in the world. He likes to do things 
of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father 
Ryan ; but I think, if I were you, I would stay here. 
When Wilcox says things are going to move, they 
usually do. Think it over and take your choice. 
Here is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a 
good thing, Father, to praise people; especially 
those I have to govern, so I am not going to praise 
you for what you have done. It was right, and it 
was your duty. I appreciate it.” 



THE OCCASION 

M R. O’BRIEN of No. 32 Chestnut street had 
his entire family with him, as he hurried to 
the eight o’clock Mass. Mrs. O’Brien was 
already tired, though she had gone only a block from 
the house; for Elenora, who always was tardy, had 
to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had come down 
stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his 
hair which was right above his forehead, but the 
back section, which the mirror did not show, was 
tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. 
O’Brien’s part to make the children presentable; 
and hurry plus effort was not good for — well, for 
folks who do not weigh as little as they did when 
they were younger. 

Dr. Reilly met the O’Briens at the corner. 

* ‘ Hello, ’ ’ he called, ‘ ‘ it ’s the whole family, bedad. 
What brings ye all to the ‘ eight o’clock’!” 

Mr. O’Brien answered his family doctor only 
when the children were left behind where they could 
not hear: “It’s Father Collins’ turn to preach at 
the High Mass, Doc,” he explained. 

“Sure, it is,” said the Doctor. “Faith, I forgot 
that. I was going to High Mass meself, but I ran 
over to see ye. Yes, it’s his turn. Sure, the poor 

009 ) 


110 


TEE OCCASION 


man puts me to sleep, and sleepin’ in the House of 
God is neither respectful nor decorous. But what is 
a man to do 1 ’ ’ 

“He is the finest priest in the city,” said Mr. 
O’Brien, looking back to see if his regiment was 
following, “and the worst preacher. I can’t sit still 
and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he 
gets before the people, and some day I think he’ll 
pull the pulpit down, trying to get his words out. 
Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up and say it 
for him.” 

“Well, O’Brien, I believe you could say it, judg- 
ing from the way you lecture us at the council meet- 
ings. And that brings me to the business I had 
when I ran off to see yo*u. Couldn’t you let the 
Missis take care of the children at this Mass? Mc- 
Garvey wants to talk over something with us. He’s 
sick and can’t get out. We’d both go to the 
‘nine o’clock’ and that will miss the sermon, too.” 

Mr. O’Brien nodded his head complacently. 
They had reached the front of the church, and whom 
should they meet but Father Collins hurrying out 
from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the 
street. 

“Good morning, Father,” cried the children in 
chorus, just as they did when one of the priests 
visited their room in the parochial school. The two 
men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins 
returned the salute. He crossed the street quickly 


TEE OCCASION 


111 


and ran up stairs to his own room in the rectory, 
but did not notice that 0 ’Brien and the doctor went 
past the church. 

Be it known that Father Collins was the third 
assistant. He had been . ordained one year. The 
first assistant, who was still fasting, with the obliga- 
tion of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in 
Father Collins’ favorite chair, when the owner of it 
entered. 

“Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own 
house,” the first assistant called. “'Come in, man, 
and be at home. I couldn’t sleep, so I had to get up 
and wait around, hungry enough,* but,” he had 
caught the expression on his friend’s face, “what is 
the matter?” 

‘ 4 Oh, nothing much, nothing much, ’ ’ replied 
Father Collins, 4 1 only I see the whole parish is turn- 
ing out to-day for the eight o’clock Mass. The 
O’Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You 
know, they always go to High Mass. ’ ’ 

“Which,” remarked Father Grady, “is no com- 
pliment either to my singing, or your Eminence’s 
preaching, or to both.” 

“Oh, your singing is all right,” assured Father 
Collins. 

“Well,” said Father Grady, “I accept the cor- 
rection. I am a modest man, but I must acknowl- 
edge that I can sing — at least, relatively speaking, 
for I haven’t very much to compete against. How- 


112 


TEE OCCASION 


ever, if it is not my singing, then it must be your 
preaching. ’ ’ 

“It is, it is,” answered his friend, with just a 
touch of shakiness in his voice. “Look here Grady, 
you know I made a good course in the Seminary. 
You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that 
I work hard. I prepare every sermon and write it 
out; when the manuscript is finished I know it by 
heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Look at 
it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong 
with it. ’ ’ 

Father Grady took the papers and began to look 
them over, while Father Collins picked up a book 
and pretended to be interested in it. In truth, he 
was glancing at his companion very anxiously over 
the top, until the manuscript had been laid down. 

“My dear Collins, you are right,” said Father 
Grady. “It is a good sermon. I wish I could write 
one half as good. There is absolutely nothing wrong 
with it.” 

“But,” urged Father Collins, “I shall spoil it.” 

“Well,” said his friend, “candor compels me to 
acknowledge that you probably shall. I don’t know 
why. Can’t you raise your voice! Can’t you have 
courage! The people won’t bite you. You can talk 
well enough to the school children. You can talk 
well enough to me. Why can ’t you stand up and be 
natural! Just be yourself and talk to them as you 
talk to us. That is the whole secret.” 


TEE OCCASION 


113 


“It is my nervousness, Grady,’ ’ said Father Col- 
lins. “I am afraid the minute I enter the church to 
preach. When I open my mouth, I lose my voice out 
of fear. That is what it is — fear. I am simply an 
arrant coward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself 
for it.” 

‘ 6 Now, look here,” said his companion earnestly, 
“you are not a coward. You can preach. It is in 
you, and it will come out, yet. I call this sermon 
nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace 
up now, the occasion will come to loosen your tongue. 
It surely will. ’ ’ 

“This is the worst day I have had,” groaned 
poor Father Collins. “I am shaking like a leaf, 
already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor just this 
once. You preach so easily. You can get up a ser- 
mon in half an hour. You have nothing to do until 
half past ten. Now, let me go out and make the 
announcements and read the Gospel at the nine 

0 ’clock Mass. Most of the children will be there and 

1 can say a few words to them. You preach at High 
Mass.” 

“Well, I ought not to do it,” said Father Grady, 
thoughtfully, “for if I do such things, it may spoil 
you. You ought not to give way, hut — you are 
white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it this 
time, so I had better look over something. ’ ’ 

Father Collins was overjoyed. He could not 
help it. He went to the church to prepare for the 


114 


TEE OCCASION 


Mass and prompt to the minute he was in the 
sanctuary. 

The Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the 
first Gospel, when the Sacristan came to the priest’s 
side and whispered a message. He was plainly 
excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the con- 
gregation. Father Collins leaned over to hear what 
he had to say. 

“Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the 
church basement now, right under your feet. The 
firemen are working on it, but can’t put it out. We 
have stopped people from coming in to stampede the 
others. The galleries are filled with the children, 
and we have to get them out, first. If there is a rush 
the children will be killed at the bottom of the gal- 
lery stairs, where they meet the people from the 
body of the church out in that vestibule. The chief 
sent me to you to tell you to go on preaching and 
hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes. 
The firemen will get the little ones out without noise 
or fuss, if you can keep the attention of the people. 
I’ll whisper ‘all right’ to you when they are gone. 
Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It is the 
only chance you have to save those children in this 
ramshackle old building, so you preach for all you 
are worth and don’t let the people look up at the 
galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owe 
their lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort.” 


THE OCCASION 


115 


The Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the 
priest thought of the galleries emptying into the 
little vestibule and meeting a rush of the people 
from the church. 

Father Collins took off his chasuble and maniple 
and placed them upon the altar. He wondered at his 
own coolness. He advanced to the front of the altar 
platform, opening his book; but he closed it again 
coolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every 
corner of the building, which he could not believe 
was his own, he began. 

4 ‘On second thought, my t friends,’ ’ he said, “I 
will not read the Epistle or the Gospel to-day. I 
have a few words to say to you, though a sermon is 
not expected at this Mass.” 

In a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O’Brien 
groaned softly. They had been caught by the 
dreaded sermon. 

Father Collins announced his text. The congre- 
gation was surprised that it was to have a sermon 
instead of the usual reading, but it was more sur- 
prised at the change in Father Collins; so much, 
indeed, that it was almost breathless. The priest 
glanced up at the gallery, quickly, and saw that the 
children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had 
ten minutes to fill in. The people below could see 
only the front rows of the gallery, which in this 
church, built in the old style, ran on three sides. So 
Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he had 


116 


TEE OCCASION 


prepared for the High Mass, but which he could not 
deliver. The beauty of it had been plain to Father 
Grady when he read it; but it was plainer to the 
enraptured congregation which sat listening to every 
syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O’Brien at- 
tempted to sleep. In fact there were no sleepers at 
all, for upright in the pews sat every man and 
woman, hanging on the preacher’s words. 

In the midst of his discourse Father Collins de- 
tected the smell of smoke and thought that all was 
lost. But he made another effort. His voice rose 
higher and his words thundered over the heads of 
the astonished people, who were so rapt that they 
could not even ask themselves what had wrought the 
miracle. If they smelled the smoke, they gave no 
sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held 
them in the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins 
took another glance at the gallery. The front row 
would go in a moment. Above all, the people must 
not be distracted now. Something must be done to 
hold their attention when the noise of the moving of 
that front row would fall upon their ears. In two 
minutes all would be well. That two minutes were 
the greatest of the priest’s life. Into them centered 
every bit of intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he 
possessed. He rapidly skipped part of his sermon 
and came to the burst of appeal, with which he was to 
close. The people could see him tremble in every 
limb. His face was as white as his surplice. His 


THE OCCASION 


117 


eyes were wide open and shining as if he were deeply 
moved by his own pleadings. He quickly de- 
scended the steps of the altar and advanced to the 
railing. The congregation did not dare to take its 
eyes away from him. The noise of the departing 
children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of 
the man had been transferred to his listeners. A 
whispered ‘all right ’ reached the priest from the 
lips of the Sacristan behind, and Father Collins 
stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with 
which he began his discourse. It was a soft, musical 
voice, that people till now did not know he possessed. 

“My friends/ ’ he said, “keep your seats for a 
moment. Those in the front pews will go out quietly 
now. Let one pew empty at a time. Ho not crowd. 
There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken 
out below, and we want to take every precaution for 
safety.’ ’ 

“Stop,” he thundered, and his voice went up 
again. “You, who are leaving from the center of 
the church, remain in your seats. Ho not start a 
rush. Ho not worry about the children, they are all 
out. Look at the galleries. They are empty. The 
children were cool. Ho not let the little ones shame 
you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance.” 

With voice and gesture, he directed the move- 
ment of the people, and then, the church emptied, he 
looked toward the vestry door. The Sacristan was 
there. 


118 


TEE OCCASION 


‘ 4 Hurry, Father,’ ’ he called, tearing off his cas- 
sock. “The floor here may give way any moment. 
Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament. Hurry ! ’ ’ 

They were out before the floor fell and the flames 
burst into the big church, which, poor old relic of the 
days of wood, went down into the ashes of destruc- 
tion. 

Mr. O’Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home 
with Dr. Reilly, but neither of them had much to say. 
Both paused at the corner where their ways parted. 

Then Mr. O’Brien spoke: “What did you think 
of the sermon, Doc?” 

“I think,” said the doctor, deliberately, “that 
though it cost us the price of a new church, ’twas 
well worth it. ’ ’ 



THE YANKEE TRAMP 


T HEY were old cronies, M. le Cure de St. 
Eustace and M. le Cure de Ste. Agatha, 
though the priestly calling seemed all they 
had in common. The first was small of stature, 
thin of face, looking like a mediaeval, though he was 
a modern, saint; the other tall, well filled out like 
an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the 
nearest approach to a scoffer in the two parishes, 
ever went so far as to call the Cure of Ste. Agatha 
by such an undeserved name, since the good, fat 
priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all 
the country knew but never mentioned. They loved 
him too much to mention his faults. He was good to 
the sick and faithful to their interests, though — “II 
etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme.” 
Besides, the Cure of St. Eustace was too generous. 
Every beggar got a meal from him and some of them 
money, till he spoiled the whole tribe of them and 
they became so bold — well there was serious talk of 
protesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his 
charities. 

The garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest 
place on earth for both the cronies after Vespers 
had been sung in their parishes on Sunday after- 
( 119 ) 


120 


THE YANKEE TRAMP 


noons, and the three miles covered from the Presby- 
tery of Ste. Agatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. 
On a fine day it was delightful to sit under the great 
trees and see the flowers and chat and smoke, with 
just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing out 
of Margot’s kingdom. It was a standing rule that 
this meal was to he taken together on Sunday and 
the visit prolonged far into the night — until old 
Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and car- 
ried his master off about half-past ten. “Grand 
Dieu. Quelle dissipation!” Only on this night did 
either one stay up after nine. 

What experiences were told these Sunday nights ! 
Big and authoritative were the words of M. le Cure 
de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending were his com- 
ments and the accounts of his week’s doings. And 
his friend’s? Bieti, they were not much, but ‘ ‘ they 
made him a little pleasure to narrate” — what he 
would tell of them. 

This night they were talking of beggars, a new 
phase of the old question. They had only beggars in 
Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. A few pennies 
would suffice for them, and when they got old there 
were always the good Sisters of the Poor to care for 
them. There were no tramps. 

“This fellow was different, mon ami ” the Cure 
de St. Eustace was saying, “he would almost bother 
you yourself with all your experience. He came 


THE YANKEE TRAMP 


121 


from over the line — from the States, and he had a 
remarkable story.” 

“ Bien oni, they all have,’’ broke in his friend, 
“but I send them to Marie and she feeds them — 
nothing more. They can not trap me with any of 
their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. 
I am hard of heart about such things, and very 
sensible.” 

“Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the 
time till dinner. I found the man seated on the gal- 
lery in front. He spoke only English. When I 
came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely 
for a Yankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no 
right to say that, for the Yankees are as the bon 
Dieu made them and they are too busy to be polite. 

“ ‘You are the priest!’ he asked me. 

“ ‘Yes, Monsieur, I am.’ 

“ ‘You speak English!’ 

“ ‘Enough to understand. What is it!’ 

“ ‘I am not a tramp, Father,’ — he looked very 
weary and sad — ‘ and it is not money ; though I am 
very hungry. You will give me something! Thanks, 
but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can 
help — very much.’ 

‘ ‘ I gave him a seat and he dropped into it. 

“ ‘Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I 
am just out of prison. I was discharged yesterday 
in New York and I lost no time in coming here. This 
is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago with 


122 


TEE YANKEE TBAMP 


my clmm. We were burglars and we were running 
away after a big operation in New York. We had 
stolen $8,000 in money and valuables, and we had it 
all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quiet 
village till the storm would blow over. Among 
the valuables was a strange ring. I had never seen 
anything like it and my chum wanted it for himself, 
but we were afraid and took it to one of your jew- 
elers — right down the street to the left — Nadeau 
was his name — to have it altered a little and made 
safe to wear. That little jeweler suspected us. I 
saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed 
the constable of the ring matter. We were watched 
and then we saw that it would be better to go. We 
feared that the New York police would learn of us, 
so we took the stuff out three miles in the country 
one dark night and buried it. I know the spot, for it 
is near the old school where the road turns for Sher- 
brooke. Then we went West, to Michigan. AVe 
broke into a store there and we were arrested, but 
New York heard of the capture and the Michigan 
authorities gave us up. We were tried and a lawyer 
defended us by the Judge’s order. He got us off 
with ten years in Sing Sing. I have been there till 
yesterday, as I told you. My chum? Well, that 
brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend to 
break down. He is dead. He died well. A priest 
converted him, and my chum repented of his life and 
begged me to change mine when I got out. I am 


TEE YANKEE TBAMP 


123 


going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I’ll 
never forget his death. He called me and said: 
‘Bunky, that loot is worrying me. The priest says 
that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs can 
be found. If they can not it must be spent in works 
of charity. Promise me that you will go to St. 
Eustace and get it, Bunky, and give it back. 
Promise!’ 

‘ 4 Then he broke down, mon ami, and I fear that I 
cried just a little too. It was sad, for he was a 
great strong man. 

4 ‘ When he could, he looked up and continued: 
‘ Well, Father, I am here to do it. I want your help. 
May I have itV 

‘ ‘ I told him I would do what I could. He wanted 
me to take the money and give it to the owner. He 
would tell me his name. I was glad to aid the poor 
man who was so repentant. 

“ ‘All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable 
man to go with me to-night. I can find the place,’ 
he said. 

“I offered to send the sexton with him and let 
him have the pick and shovel from the cemetery. 
I gave him food and thanked God as I watched him 
eat, that grace was working in his heart again. 

“ ‘I will wait for the man at seven to-night, 
Father,’ he said when he was leaving. ‘Let him 
meet me with the horse and buggy just outside of 

the town. If there is danger I will not see him, and 
9 


124 


TEE YANKEE TRAMP 


he can return. I will take the pick and shovel now, 
and bring the stuff to you in a valise by 10 o'clock. 
Wait up for me.' 

4 'He left and the sexton went to the road at 
seven, but did not see him. At 10 o'clock I heard 
him coming. It was very dark and he knocked 
sharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door 
and he thrust a valise into my hand. It was heavy. 

" 'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when 
I will bring the key. The valise is locked. Give me 
something that I may buy a night's lodging and I 
will come back at seven.' 

"I gave him the first note in my purse and he 
hurried away. 

"Now I fear, mon ami , that I never quite over- 
came my childish curiosity, for I felt a burning de- 
sire to see all that treasure, especially the strange 
ring. I must root out that fault before I die or my 
purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where 
I had a good chisel, and I am sorry to confess that I 
opened the valise just a very little to see the heap 
of precious things. There was an old cigar-box and 
something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel 
down till I opened the box. There was no treasure 
in it at all, but just a lot of iron-shavings. I felt 
that I had been fooled and I broke the valise open. 
The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of 
old coupling-pins from the railroad. I was dis- 
gusted with this sinner, this thief. But it was droll 





mam 






m > : 




Putnam 


wmmim 

llgflgig 


■ . 

r&Vrc 


■ 


“ Mon Dieu! 


It was mine.” 






TEE YANKEE TRAMP 


125 


— it was droll — and I could scarcely sleep with 
laughing at the whole farce. X know that was sinful. 
I should have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee 
tramp. ’ ’ 

“And the valise? What did you do with it?” 
asked the hard-hearted Cure of Ste. Agatha, who 
must have felt sorry that the friend could be so 
easily duped. 4 4 What did you do with the valise ? ’ * 

44 I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me 
and I couldn’t understand why. It was so good — 
almost new. I felt that the sight of it would make 
me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I 
wanted to forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to 
the good Sisters at the Hospital, to use when they 
must travel to Sherbrooke.” 

The Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He 
plainly wanted to speak but choked back twice. 
Then he rose and looked at his friend with a face as 
red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took 
two steps, came back, and spoke rapidly. 4 4 Do you 
think the Sisters will bring it back, the valise? Mon 
Dieu! It was mine.” 

Ten miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles 
from Ste. Agatha a Yankee tramp was hurrying 
toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He had the 
money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket 
keeping company with one note from the purse of 
the generous Cure of St. Eustace and one of a much 


126 


THE YANKEE TRAMP 


larger denomination, from the wise but hard-hearted 
Cure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps. 

And this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of 
St. Eustace saw it: that some gloomy and worried 
millionaires are lost to the States, to make a few 
irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their 
wits, and whose sins even are amusing. One must 
not blame them overmuch. 

As to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no 
opinions on the matter at all, for the Sisters gave 
him back his new valise. 



HOW 

FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 
BEGAN TO BE A SAINT 

y 

I F you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like 
him, because — well, just because Father Tom 
Connolly was one of the kind whom everybody 
liked. He had curly black hair, over an open and 
smiling face; he was big, but not too big, and he 
looked the priest, the soggarth aroon kind, you know, 
so that you just felt that if you ever did get into 
difficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first 
man for you to talk it all over with. But Father 
Tom had a large parish, in a good-sized country 
town, to look after ; and so, while you thought that 
you might monopolize all of his sympathy in your 
bit of possible trouble, he had hundreds whose 
troubles had already materialized, and was waiting 
for yours with a wealth of experience which would 
only make his smile deeper and his grasp heartier 
when the task of consoling you came to his door and 
heart. 

Now, there lived in the same town as Father Tom 
another priest of quite a different make. He, too, 
had a Christian name. It was Peter; but no one 
ever called him Father Peter. Every one addressed 

( 127 ) 


128 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 


him as Father I twin. Somehow this designation 
alone fitted him. It was not that this other priest 
was nnkind — not at all — but it was just that in 
Father Tom’s town he did not quite fit. 

Father Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to 
build a new church, and that on a slice of Father 
Tom’s territory, which the Bishop lopped off to 
form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He 
had no rich brogue on his tongue to charm you into 
looking at his coat in expectation of seeing his big 
heart burst out to welcome you. He was thoughtful- 
looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his 
new church building grew very slowly. 

I have given you the characters of my little story, 
but, for the life of me, I can not tell you which one is 
to be the hero and which the villain — but, let that 
go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this story 
has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as 
day follows night — for which figure of speech, my 
thanks to Mr. Shakespeare — that when Father 
Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad ; and 
just as naturally — God help us — there was enough 
of human nature in Father Tom to say, 4 ‘ I told you 
so ” to himself, and to have him pity Father Ilwin to 
others in that superior sort of way that cuts and 
stings more than a whip of scorpions. Then, when 
Father Tom spoke to some of his people of Father 
Ilwin ’s poor success and said, “He meant well, good 
lad,” they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 


129 


Tom; but when Father Ilwin heard of this great 
kindness he just shut his lips tightly, and all the 
blood was chased from his set face to grip his heart 
in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, 
you know! and human nature explains a lot of 
things which even story-writers have to give up. Of 
course, people did say that Father Ilwin was un- 
gracious and unappreciative; yet, as I write, much 
as I like Father Tom, I have a tear in my eye for 
the lonely man who knew well that the only obstacle 
to his success was the one that people never could 
see, and that the obstacle himself was never likely 
to see. 

But let us go on. Of all the things in this world 
that Father Tom believed in, it was that his “parish 
rights’ ’ were first and foremost. So he never 
touched foot in his neighbor’s parish, except to pay 
him a friendly visit, or to go to his righteous con- 
fession. He visited no homes out of his territory, 
though he had baptized pretty nearly every little 
curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer 
and that was enough. He wanted no visitor in his 
limits either, except on the same terms. So no one 
in Father Tom’s parish had helped much in building 
the church across the river. The people understood. 

It had never occurred to Father Tom that his 
own purse — not too large, but large enough — 
might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he had 
“built his church by hard scraping, and that is how 


130 


FATHEB TOM CONNOLLY 


churches should be built.” Now, do not get a bad 
opinion of Father Tom on this account. He thought 
he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me 
to criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in 
the town loved as a father; only I did feel sorry 
that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and worn, and 
that his building work was stopped, and people did 
not seem to sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over 
in his parish there were open murmurs that “the 
people had built one church and should not be asked 
now to build another”; or “what was good enough 
for Father Tom was good enough for anyone”; or 
‘ ‘ the Bishop should have consulted us before he sent 
this young priest into Father Tom’s parish.” In 
the other part of the town, however, everything was 
quiet enough, and none would think of offending 
his pastor by showing any interest in Father Ilwin, 
financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing ; 
but do you wonder that one day when a generous 
gift was announced from “the Rev. Thomas Con- 
nolly, our respected fellow citizen,” to help in the 
erection of a Soldier’s Monument for the town, 
Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, 
where, on the table, were laid out the plans of his 
poor little church, and cried like a baby? 

It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his 
parish, which was again much to his credit with the 
people. “Sure, he never takes a vacation at all,” 
they said. But at last a call came that he could not 





“ Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, where on the table were laid 
out the plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby.” 




FATHEB TOM CONNOLLY 


131 


refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure 
a monk from a monastery quite far away to take 
his place over Sunday, he left to see a sick brother 
from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far 
in the Southwest. Perhaps it was significant, per- 
haps not — I do not know, and I do not judge — that 
Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to the 
monastery that, “as the weather is warm, the father 
who comes to take my place need only say a Low 
Mass and may omit the usual sermon.” It was 
known that Father Tom did not care for preachers 
from outside. He could preach a little himself, and 
he knew it. 

It was a long and tiresome journey to the bed- 
side of Father Tom’s dying brother, so when the 
big, good-natured priest stepped oft the train at 
Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and 
weary. But he soon had to forget both. A dapper 
young man was waiting for him in a buggy. The 
young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat 
of clerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but 
was called back by its occupant. 

“Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?” 

‘ ‘ I am, ’ ’ said the priest in surprise. 

“Then father is waiting for you. I am your 
nephew. Get in with me.” 

Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupe- 
faction. 


132 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 


“You — you are a clergyman ?” lie stammered. 

“Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next vil- 
lage. Father was always a Romanist, but the rest 
of us, but one, are Christians.” 

If you could only have seen Father Tom’s face. 
No more was said; no more was needed. In a few 
minutes the buggy stopped before the Connolly farm 
home and Father Tom was with his brother. He 
lost no time. 

“Patrick,” said he, “is that young Baptist min- 
ister your son?” 

“Yes, Tom, he is.” 

“Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died be- 
fore she knew. ’Twill be no warm welcome she’ll be 
giving ye on the other side.” 

“Perhaps not, Tom. I’ve thought little of these 
things, except as to how I might forget them, till 
now. Somehow, it doesn’t seem quite right. But I 
did the best I could. I have one of the children to 
show her.” 

“How did one stay?” 

“She didn’t stay. She came back to the Faith. 
She was converted by a priest who was down here 
for his health and who was stationed in this town 
for about a year. He went back North when he got 
better. I would not have sent even for you, Tom, 
only she made me.” 

Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he 
did not speak for a long minute. Then he took his 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 


133 


brother’s hand and said in his old boy language: 
“ Paddy, lad, tell me all about it — how you fell 
away. Maybe there was something of an excuse 
for it.” 

4 ‘ I thought there was, ’ ’ said the dying man, 4 ‘ but 
now all seems different. When I came here first, I 
was one of the few Catholic settlers, and I was true 
to my religion. I saw the other churches built, 
but never went into them, though they tried hard 
enough to get me, God knows. But I was fool 
enough to let a pretty face catch me. It was a priest 
from Houston who married us. She never inter- 
fered; and later a few more Catholics came. The 
children were all baptized and we got together to 
build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in 
the bank — one hundred and fifty dollars. We were 
only a few, but we got a thousand dollars in all. We 
could get no more, and money was bringing twelve 
per cent, so we couldn’t borrow. We had to give it 
all back and wait. Without church or priest, the chil- 
dren went to the Sunday-schools and — I lost them. 
Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift until this priest 
came for his health. He got us few Catholics to- 
gether and converted my best — my baby girl — 
Kathleen. She was named after mother, Tom. We 
could only raise eight hundred dollars this time, but 
the priest said: ‘I’ll go to my neighbors and ask 
help. ’ So he went over to Father Pastor and Father 
Lyons, but they refused to help at all. They have 


134 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 


rich parishes, whose people would be glad to give 
something; but the priests said, ‘No.’ They thought 
helping was a mistake. It hurt our priest, for he 
could do nothing on eight hundred dollars. We 
needed only another five hundred. But that ended 
the struggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Mur- 
phy and Sullivan went away. Keane died. His 
family are all ‘fallen away.’ My boy went to a col- 
lege his mother liked — and you saw him. The 
others — except Kathleen — are all Baptists. I sup- 
pose I have a heavy load to bear before the judg- 
ment seat, but Tom — Tom, you don ’t know the 
struggle it cost, and the pain of losing was greater 
than the pain of the fight. ’ ’ 

A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick 
man reached out his hand which she took as she sat 
beside him. 

“This is Kathleen, Tom. He’s your uncle and a 
priest, my darling. She sits by me this way, Tom, 
and we say our beads together. I know it won ’t be 
long now, dearie, ’till you can go with your uncle 
where there is a church and a chance to profit by it. ’ ’ 

Father Tom closed his brother’s eyes two days 
later. 

He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. 
His nephew accompanied them to the train and said 
with unction : 

“Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you,” and 
Father Tom groaned down to his heart of hearts. 


FATHER TOM CONNOLLY 135 

Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom 
and his niece arrived home, though quite by acci- 
dent. Kathleen ’s eyes danced when she saw him and 
she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said : 

“Sure, I had no idea that you knew one an- 
other.” 

“Yes, indeed, we do,” cried the child. “Why, 
uncle, it was Father Peter who converted me. ’ ’ 

Father Tom heard, but did not say a word. 

It was only three days later when Father Tom 
stood in the miserable little room that Father Ilwin 
called his library. On the table still reposed the 
plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer 
was heard outside. Father Tom had little to say, 
but it was to the point. He had profited by his three 
days at home to think things out. He had arrived 
at his conclusions, and they were remarkably prac- 
tical ones. 

“Ilwin, me lad, I don’t think I’ve treated ye 
just as a priest and Christian should — but I thought 
I was right. I know now that I wasn’t. Ilwin, we 
can build that church and we will. Here are a thou- 
sand dollars as a start to show that I mean it. 
There’ll be a collection for you in St. Patrick’s next 
Sunday. After that I intind going about with ye. 
I think I know where we can get some more.” 

Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to 
be a Saint. 


THE UNBROKEN SEAL 



■HE priest ran right into a mob of strikers as 


he turned the corner of the road leading from 


the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud 
Run, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street 
of the town. He was coming from the camp of the 
militia, where he had been called to administer the 
last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers 
had shot down the night before. 

Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye 
caught that of the priest while he was in the midst 
of an impassioned period, but a look of hate alone 
showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the 
people in the rear of the crowd noticed the priest’s 
presence at all. He was glad enough of that, for 
suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in his 
way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees 
and his very best friend when he first came to the 
parish. It looked now as if he had no longer a friend 
in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed town. 
Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The 
priest caught a few words of Slevski ’s burning ap- 
peal to hatred and walked faster, with that peculiar 


( 136 ) 


THE UNBBOKEN SEAL 


137 


nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quick- 
ened his steps even more for it. 

‘ 6 Company — oppressors of the poor — trai- 
tors”; even these few words, which followed him, 
gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade. 

The women were in the crowd or hanging about 
the edges of it. A crash of glass behind him made 
the priest turn for an instant, and he saw that Maria 
Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. 
She had a shawl quite filled with large stones. With 
the crash came a cheer from the crowd around Slev- 
ski, who could see the bank from their position in 
front of the livery stable. 

A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he 
came running down the street, gun in hand, fol- 
lowed by half a dozen others. One of them saluted. 

“Bad business, Father,’ ’ he said. “Will the 
lieutenant live 1 ?” 

“I am afraid he will not,” answered the priest. 

“They will surely burn down the company’s 
buildings, ’ ’ said the soldier. 6 ‘ God ! There they go 
now.” And the soldier hurried on. 

Later the priest watched the red glow from his 
window. It reminded him of blood, and he shud- 
dered. 

His old housekeeper called him to his frugal sup- 
per. 

“I can not go out much now,” he said to her. “I 
am a Pole. WTiat could a Pole do with these Huns 


138 


TEE UNBROKEN SEAL 


who have no sympathy with him, or the Italians 
whose language he can not speak ?” 

He wondered if he were a coward. Why should 
he discuss this with his servant ? 

“Slevski,” she said, ‘ 4 makes the people do what 
he wants. He cursed me on the street this morn- 
ing.’ ? 

“Yes,” said the priest, “he speaks in curses. 
He has never tried to speak to God, so he has never 
learned any other language ; and these men are his 
property now.” 

“There will be no one at Mass next Sunday,” 
said the old housekeeper. “Even the women won’t 
come. They think you are in league with the sol- 
diers.” 

“Never mind, Judith,” said the priest, “at heart 
they are good people, and this will pass away. The 
women fear God.” 

“They fear God sometimes,” said Judith, “but 
now they fear Slevski always.” 

The priest said nothing in reply. He was here 
the patient Church which could wait and does not 
grow old. 

After his meal, he again stood at the window to 
watch the red glow of the burning buildings. He 
heard shots, but he knew that it would be useless to 
interfere. He waited for some one to come and call 
him to the dying; for he feared people had been 
hurt, else why the shots'? 


THE UNBROKEN SEAL 


139 


A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and 
a woman entered. The priest knew her well, by 
sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski’s wife. 
She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. 
She was English-speaking and did not come to 
church. Slevski had married her three years before 
in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited 
for her to speak. 

4 4 Tell me, ’ ’ she began very rapidly, is it true that 
no single word of a confession may ever be revealed 
by the priest ?” 

4 4 It is true,” he answered. 

4 4 Even if he were to die for it ? ’ 9 she urged. 

4 4 Even if he were to die.” 

The priest’s eyes wore a puzzled expression, but 
she went on : 

4 4 May he even not betray it by an action ? ’ 9 

4 4 Not even by an action.” 

4 4 Even if he died for it?” Her voice was full of 
anxiety. 

4 4 Even then.” 

44 I wish to confess,” she said. 4 4 May I do it 
here ? I will kneel afterward, if necessary, but I can 
tell it better here — and I must do it quickly . 9 9 

4 4 It will take only a minute if we go to the 
church,” he answered. 4 4 It is irregular to hear your 
confession outside of the proper place, unless in case 
of illness.” 

4 4 Then let us go,” she said, 4 4 and hurry.” 

10 


140 


THE UNBEOEEN SEAL 


They entered the church, and she knelt on the 
penitent’s side of the confessional. Later she told 
all that had happened. 

“What troubles you?” asked the priest. “Have 
you been to confession of late?” 

“Three years ago,” and she shuddered, “I was 
to confession. It was before I married him, never 
since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to you. Listen 
now, for there isn’t very much time.” He bent his 
head and said : “I am listening. ’ ’ 

She went on without taking breath. “They are 
going to murder you. I heard it, for I was in the 
secret. I consented to summon you, but I could not. 
They charged that you were in the company’s pay 
and working against the men. One of them will 
come to-night and ask you to go on a sick-call. They 
intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I 
had to warn you to prepare. I could not see you 
killed without — without a prayer. It is too cruel. 
Ho what you can for yourself. That’s all I can 
say. ’ ’ 

“It is very simple,” said the priest. “I need 
not go.” 

“Then they will know that I told you,” she an- 
swered breathlessly. Her eyes showed her fright. 

“You are right,” said the priest. “I fear that it 
would violate the Seal if I refused to go. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” she said, “and he would know at once 
that I had told, and he — he suspects me already. 


TEE UNBROKEN SEAL 


141 


He may have followed me, for I refused to call you. 
If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to 
you. I am not ready to die — and he would kill me. ’ ’ 

“Then do not trouble your mind about it any 
more. God will take care of me,” said the priest. 
“Finish your confession.” 

In ten minutes she had left. The priest was 
alone with himself, and his duty. Through the open 
door of the church he saw Slevski — and he knew 
that the woman had been followed. 

He sat for a long time where he was, staring 
straight ahead with wide open eyes, the lashes of 
which never once stirred. Then he went back to the 
house and mechanically, almost, picked up his bre- 
viary and finished his daily office. He laid the book 
down on the arm of his chair, went to his desk and 
wrote a few lines, sealed them in an envelope and 
left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly 
calm, but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell 
upon the crucifix above his desk and he gave way in 
an instant, dropping on his knees before it. The 
prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse 
and whispering: 

“Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. 
I am young. Have pity on me. I am not strong 
enough to be so like You.” 

Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really 
be broken if he did not go. Perhaps Slevski had not 

10a 


142 


THE UNBEOEEN SEAL 


suspected his wife at all — but had the priest not 
seen him outside the church? 

The sweat was over his face, and he walked to 
the door to get a breath of air. The priest knew 
there was no longer even a lingering doubt as to 
what he should do. He went back to the church, and, 
before the altar, awaited his call. 

It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper 
appeared in half an hour to summon him. 

“Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other 
side of the Run. It is for his wife, who is sick, that 
he comes. She is dying. ’ ’ 

The priest bowed and followed the old servant 
into the house, but Kendis had left. 

The priest looked at his few books and lovingly 
touched some of his favorites. His reading chair 
was near. His eyes filled as he looked at it, with the 
familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified 
Christ gazed down from His cross at him and 
seemed to smile; but the priest’s eyes swam with 
tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened 
the door, but lingered on the threshold. When he 
passed out on the street his walk was slow, his lips 
moving, as he went along with the step of a man 
very weary and bending beneath the weight of a 
Great Something. 

The people did not know then that their one dark 
and muddy street was that night a Via Dolorosa; 


THE UNBROKEN SEAL 


143 


that along it a man who loved them dragged a heavy 
Cross for their sake ; that it ended for him, as had 
another sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a 
cruel Calvary. 

Slevsld told the whole story before the trap of 
the gallows was sprung. 



MAC OF THE ISLAND 


W HEN the “Boston Boat” drew near Char- 
lottetown I could see Mac waving me a wel- 
come to the “Island” from the very last 
inch of standing space upon the dock. When I 
grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen minutes 
later, I knew that my old college chum had changed 
only outwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward 
Island, which the natives call “the Island,” as if 
there were no other, was upon him ; but that stamp 
really made Mac the man he was. The bright red 
clay was over his rough boots. Could any clay be 
redder? It, with his homespun clothes, made the 
Greek scholar look like a typical farmer. 

We had dinner somewhere in the town before we 
left for the farm. It was a plain, honest dinner. I 
enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat; but the 
mealy potatoes and the fresh cod — oh, such pota- 
toes and cod — were the best part of it. I then and 
there began to like the Island for more reasons than 
because it had produced Mac. 

( 144 ) 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


145 


We drove out of town, across the beautiful river 
and away into the country, along red clay roads 
which were often lined with spruce, and always with 
grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the 
sheep and kept bright green by the moisture. 

“You must enjoy this immensely, you old her- 
mit,” I said to Mac, as the buggy reached the top of 
a charming hill, overlooking a picture in which the 
bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue 
sky and the bluer waters were blended. 

“Yes, I do,” replied Mac. “This is Tea Hill: 
You know I think if I were in Africa but wanted to 
write something about home, I could close my eyes, 
think of red and green slopes and blue waters and 
the smell of haymaking, and have the atmosphere 
in an instant. Just look at that,” he pointed toward 
the water. “We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see 
how it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce 
and the fields. Then look off in the distance. That is 
Hillsboro Bay. You passed through it this morning. 
Do you see the little islands out there? One is called 
St. Peter’s and the other is called Governor’s. It is 
a funny thing, but every man, woman and child on 
the Island knows them by name, yet I could wager a 
farm that not one in a thousand has ever set foot 
upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn’t it, Bruce?” 

‘ 4 Yes, yes, ’ ’ I replied. “ It is a grand scene, Mac, 

and ” But Mac turned to salute a gentleman 

wearing a silk hat who was passing in a buggy. 


146 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


“Good morning, Doctor,’ ’ he called. The doctor 
bowed with what looked like gracious condescension. 

Mac turned to me again. “What were you say- 
ing, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I must love it. Why, of 
course I do. Wasn’t I born here? By the way, that 
chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. 
He is head of a college in Charlottetown. Prince of 
Wales they call it. It is a very important part of 
Island life.” 

4 4 But I do not think, Mac, ’ ’ I suggested, 4 4 that he 
was quite as fraternal in his greeting as I might 
have expected him to be.” 

“Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer,” 
said Mac quickly. “In fact, nobody around here 
does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec McKin- 
ney, who went to Boston when a young fellow — you 
know that Boston, Bruce, is another name for the 
whole United States, on this Island — and who came 
back a fizzle and a failure to work his father’s farm. 
But say, Bruce,” and Mac turned to me very quickly, 
4 4 what brought you here, anyhow ? I wager there is 
a reason for the visit. Now, own up.” He stopped 
the buggy right in the middle of the road and looked 
me in the face. 4 4 Surely,” he went on, 4 4 you would 
not have thought of coming to the Island just to gos- 
sip about old times.” 

44 Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad 
I came,” I answered, 4 4 but you guess well, for this 
time I was sent. ’ ’ 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


147 

Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his 
voice: “You were sent? Good! I am glad. Now, 
out with it.” 

“Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it 
looks as if I had a chance to get you.” 

“Get me?” Mac grew grave again. 

“Yes, the old place wants you — for Greek, Mac. 
We need you badly. Old Chalmers is dead. His 
place is vacant. No one can fill it better than the 
best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, 
you must come, and I must bring you home. You 
know the old college is home for you. You can’t fool 
me, Mac. You love it better even than this.” And 
I waved my hand toward the bay. 

Mac’s face showed emotion. I expected it would. 
I had prepared for the interview, and I knew Mac. 
I thought I had won ; but he changed the conversa- 
tion abruptly. 

“Look over there, Bruce,” and he pointed with 
his whip toward the distance. “Away otf on the 
other side of the Island is where Schurman of 
Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who 
come from around here. Down in that village is the 
birthplace of your Secretary of the Interior. These 
people, my people, worship God first and learning 
next. They are prouder of producing such men than 
they are of the Island itself, and to use student lan- 
guage, that is ‘ going some.’ ” 

“Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac,” I answered, 


148 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


not quite seeing why he had thrown me off, “but 
they do not seem to know you.” 

“ No, ’ ’ he answered quickly. ‘ ‘ they do not, and I 
do not want them to. It would frighten them off. It 
would require explanations. What difference if I 
have six letters after my name? To these people, 
worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I 
would not be Alec any more.” 

“But Mac, you will come back now, won’t you? 
The college wants you ; you mustn ’t refuse. ’ 9 

There was still more emotion in Mac’s voice, 
when he answered: “Bruce, old man, don’t tempt 
me. You can not know, and the faculty can not 
know. You say I ought to love all this and I do ; but 
not with the love I have for the old college, though 
I was born here. Can you imagine that old Roman 
general, whom they took away from his plow to lead 
an army, refusing the offer but keeping the memory 
of it bright in his heart ever after? That is my case 
now, old man. There is nothing in this world I 
would rather have had than your message, but I 
must refuse the offer.” 

“Now Mac,” I urged, “be reasonable. There is 
nothing here for you. Scenery won’t make up.” 

“Don’t I know it?” and Mac stopped the buggy 
again. “Don’t I know it? But there is something 
bigger to me here than the love of the things God 
made me to do — and he surely made me for Greek, 
Bruce. Do not think I am foolish or headstrong. I 


MAC OF THE ISLAND 


149 


long for my work. But Bruce, if you can not have 
two things that you love, all you can do is to give up 
one and go on loving the other, without having it. 
That’s my fix, Bruce.” 

“Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it 
means to you?” I began urging, because I knew 
that I would soon have to play my trump card. 
“Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a 
thing in life but that farm, and you — heavens, Mac, 
don’t you know that you are one of the greatest 
Greek scholars in the world? Don’t you think you 
owe the world something? What are you giving? 
Nothing! You have suppressed even the knowledge 
of what you are from the people around you. You 
get a curt nod from the head of a little college. 
These people call you Alec, when the whole world 
wants to call you Master. You are doing work that 
any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing 
work that no one can do as well as yourself. Is this 
a square deal for other people, Mac? Were you not 
given obligations as well as gifts?” 

“Yes, Bruce.” Mac said it sadly. “There’s the 
rub. I was given obligations as well as gifts, and I 
am taking you home with me now, instead of thresh- 
ing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I 
want you and you alone to realize that I am not just 
a stubborn Islander. And there is home.” 

He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage 
was back from the road nearly a quarter of a mile. 


150 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


Mac opened the gate, led the horse through it, closed 
it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me. 
There were tears in his brown eyes. 

‘ ‘ Is every one well ? ’ ’ said Mac hesitatingly. 6 6 Is 
everybody well — I mean of the people I knew best 
back there ?” he asked. I knew what he meant. 

“Yes, Mac, she is well,” I said, “and I know she 
is waiting.’ ’ 

I had played my “trump card,” but Mac was 
silent. 

The farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen 
door opened directly on the farmyard, and around 
it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys, ducks, 
geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate 
in the flower-garden fence, and, passing through it, 
we walked along the pathway before the house, so 
that I could enter through the front door and be 
received in the “front room.” Island opposition to 
affectation or “putting on,” as the people say, for- 
bade calling this “front room” a parlor. No one 
would think of doing such a thing, unless he was 
already well along the way to “aristocracy.” One 
dare not violate the unwritten Island law to keep 
natural and plain. 

I noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the 
cultured accents of the old college ; but before others 
he spoke as the Islanders spoke — good English, 
better English than that of the farmers I knew, but 
flat — the extremity of plainness. I could not an- 


MAC OF THE ISLAND 


151 


alyze that Island brogue. It sounded like a mixture 
of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant only because unsoft- 
ened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It 
struck me as a sort of protest against affectation ; as 
the Islander’s way of explaining, without putting it 
in the sense of the words, that he does not want to be 
taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is a 
notice that the user of it meets you man to man. So 
it reflected Mac, and it reflected his people, unspoiled, 
unvarnished, true as steel, full of rigid honesty ; but 
undemonstrative, with the wells of affection hidden, 
yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water. 

The “ front room” had a hand- woven carpet on 
the floor, made of a material called “drugget.” A 
few old prints, in glaring colors, were on the walls. 
There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking pic- 
ture of the dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an 
altar above and candles all around it. It was a 
strange religious conceit. On another wall was a 
coffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and 
framed, with a little photograph of a young man in 
the center of the flowers. The chairs were plain 
enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. 
It was not Mac’s kind of a room, at all. It made me 
shudder and wonder how the scholar who loved his 
old book-lined college den and knew the old masters, 
could even live near to it. 

Mac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who 
walked with a cane. She was bent and wrinkled with 


152 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


age. I could see that she was blind. She had a 
strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had 
only a vague recollection of seeing as a boy, about 
her shoulders; and on her head was a black cap 
with white ruching around her face. 

“My mother, Bruce,’ ’ he said, very simply. 

As I took the old lady’s hand, he said to her: 
“This is my old friend, Professor Bruce, mother. 
He has come all the way from New York to see me. 
I’ll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sis- 
ter has been bedridden for years, Bruce.” 

The old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. 
Mac smiled at me as he led her to a chair and said : 
“Bruce does not look like a professor, mother. He 
just looks like me.” 

I could see all the Island respect for learning in 
the poor old lady’s deference. Mac left us, and his 
mother asked if I would not have some tea. I re- 
fused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to 
the hour of the evening meal. 

“So, you knew my son at college?” said the 
mother. 

“I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my 
dearest friend.” 

The old lady began to cry softly. 

“I am so sorry,” she said, “that he failed in his 
examinations, and yet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, 
for it is a comfort to have him. Ellie is a cripple 
and without Alec what would we do? Of course, if 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 


153 


he hadn’t failed, I couldn’t hope to keep him, so it is 
better, perhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart 
boy and so anxious to get on. It was a great dis- 
appointment to him ; and then, of course, none of us 
liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was 
not cut out for something better than a farmer. But 
you must have liked him, when you came all the way 
from New York to see him.” 

I began to understand. 

That night I thought it all out in my little room, 
with the flies buzzing around me and the four big 
posts standing guard over a feather bed, into which 
I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac 
in the morning. 

He had already done a good day’s work in the 
fields, before I was up for breakfast, so we went into 
the garden to thresh it out. 

“Mac,” I said severely, “did you tell your 
mother and sister and the people around here that 
you had failed in your examinations ! ” 

“Well, Bruce,” he said haltingly, “I did not ex- 
actly tell them that, but I let them think it. ’ ’ 

“Good Lord!” I thought, “the man who easily 
led the whole college.” But aloud: “Did you tell 
them you had no career open to you in New York!” 

“Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too.” 

“And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling 
scholarship you won, or the offers that Yale made 
you!” 


154 


MAC OF THE ISLAND 


“Oh, what was the use, Bruce V 9 said Mac des- 
perately. “I know it was wrong, but it was the only 
way I saw. Look here. When I got back home, with 
all these letters after my name and that traveling 
scholarship to my credit, I found sister as I told you 
she was — you’ll see her yourself this morning, poor 
girl — and mother blind. Brother, the best brother 
that ever lived — it is his picture they have in that 
hideous frame in the front room — died two months 
before I graduated. Bruce, there was no one but me. 
If I had told the truth, they would not have let me 
stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, 
sister never wore a decent dress or a decent hat, and 
mother never had that thing that every old lady on 
the Island prizes, a silk dress, just because she saved 
the money for me. I told you that these people 
worship learning after God.” He put his hand to 
his eyes. “Bruce, I am lonely. I have grown out of 
the ways of my people. But you wouldn’t ask me 
to grow out of a sense of my duty too ? ’ ’ 

“No, I don’t want you to come with me, Mac,” I 
said. “I am going back alone. When you are free, 
the college is waiting. She can be as generous as 
her son, and, I hope, as patient.” 

Mac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with 
me again from its summit over the waters of Pownal 
Bay. I understood now its appeal to him. The 
waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his 
Promised Land. Would Tea Hill, plain little emi- 


MAC OF TEE ISLAND 155 

nence, be to Mac a new Mount Nebo, from, which he 
should gaze longingly, but never leave? 

Plain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, 
scholar with a great mind, son and brother with 
heart of purest gold! I could not see you through 
the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this 
your Island of the good and true amongst God’s 
children, but I could think only of you as she passed 
the lighthouse, and the two tiny islands that every 
one knows but no one visits, and moved down the 
Strait of Northumberland toward the world that is 
yours by right of your genius, that wants you and 
is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac, 
though my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, 
so well, that already had He given you treasures 
beyond a selfish world’s ken to value or to under- 
stand. 













































* 







y 



























































- 











































































































